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HOVSE 

TH9VSAND 
COBWEBS 



■^'i^^ 



Being a Book of Fables 

written in the Vernacular 

of Today 




^m^"' H; 



The authoi — in a typical frame of mine 



rhe HOUSE of a 

THOUSAND COBWEBS 

and nine other 

FABLES 

By H/A^STEBBINS 

Author of 
"Reveries of a Rambler," etc. 

Illustrated by Ray Winters 




SAN FRANCI SCO 

THE ABBOTT. PRESS 

1920 






COPYRIGHT 1920 BY H. A. STEBBINS 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



m 19i9':i0 



i 



In the order 
of their appearance. 

The House of a Thousand Cobwebs 
All to the Mustache . . . 

The Late Mr. Jazz 

Go Thou and Sin Some More . 

The Fiasco of Flavius Flivver 

All is Not Bird that Twitters 

Hewers of Wood and Drawers of Water 

The Pot of Gold at the End of the Payroll 109 

The Boss Who Listened to Treason . .127 

All Fuzz and a Yard Wide 147 



13 

25 

69 
83 
99 



Fore TVarni7tg 



A FEW years back, in the course of my 
magazine work, I had occasion to inter- 
^ view a famous evangelist who is accused 
of having crowded more sinners into the State 
of Penance than any other living soul. This evan- 
gelist, by the way, is famous not only for the tre- 
mendous host of converts who follow in his wake^ 
but for his forceful and fiery style of preaching. 

And I said to this Preachin' Bill: "Why 
do you say that 'David hit Goliath right on the 
coco between the two lamps,' when you can get 
the same gospel truth over by using English 
pure and undefiled?'' 

" My son," he parried back, " that isn 't 
slang — it's the language of the people." 

And so I have chosen the "language of the 
people " to get over some observations on the foibles 
and frailties of humankind; and, more especially, 
some sidelights on those who play more or less 
important roles in the Romance of Business. 



by the Author 



We are apt to underrate the moral quality 
of a man's regular vocation, his daily task, his 
business; to look somewhere apart from this for 
his opportunity to achieve character and do good. 

But, to those who have the eye to see and 
the ear to hear, there is much that is fine, much 
that is characterful, and much that is serio-comic 
in the daily routine of the workaday world. 

To tap the rich vein of mirth that runs 
through the lighter side of America's business 
life; to bring out the high-lights and the bright 
spots that lurk in human nature — this has been 
my object in writing these Fables that teach 
without preaching and that serve a moral purpose 
even as they entertain. 

I am indebted to the Fairchild Company, 
Publishers, for permitting me to embody in this 
volume a number of Fables that originally 
appeared in their publications. 

•— H. A. s. 



The HOUSE of a 
THOUSAND COBWEBS 

A Fable about the lad who cleaned house 

YOUNG MUSTY was an Old Man at Thirty- 
five. At this Age he had lapsed into the 
Business founded by his Great Grand Dad 
and had relapsed into the slouch-before-the-fireside 
Attitude of his august Forebears. 

In point of Nativity he was American. But, so 
far as Business Methods go, he was essentially 
Chinese. He operated on the bland, Smokum- 
okum Principle that what was good enough for his 
Ancestral Strain was good enough for him. 

True — the Business had begun to give off the 
Dank Odor of Dry Rot. But, since there were 
Cobwebs Aplenty in his alleged Cabeza, his Olfac- 
tory Senses were oblivious to said Odor. 

The Employees of Musty 's Emporium were 
sober and sedate. Also they were stiff, stilted and 
stereotyped. All affected the same Garb and all 
belonged to the same Denominational Church. 
All took Pride in being aligned with such an Old 
Line House and all energetically opposed anything 



1 4 The House of a 

designed to inject some Modern Elixir into the 
Life of the Stagnant Business. 

They worshipped at the Shrine of Convention 
and those who even flirted with Progress were 
branded Heretics, Infidels, Upstarts and No- 
Accounts in general. They would point with 
Pride at their own Decorousness and would view 
with Alarm the Tendency towards Pep and Buoy- 
ancy in Modern-Day Business. 

Had it not been for the Foresight of the original 
Mr. Musty the Enterprise founded by him would 
have long since toppled into the Limbo of 
Decadent Dreams. But the Old Boy had pitched 
his Business Tent in what was destined to be a 
Strategic Site and so had left his Progeny a 
Heritage worth having. 

The Business did not peter out in One Day any 
more than you can riddle a sturdy Fort full of Holes 
in one short Spasm. It takes Old Doc Time to 
undermine it — to ferret out the weak and vulner- 
able Spots in the Wall of Defense. 

It was a gradual Process of Decay — the subtle 
Poisons of Inertia and Smug Satisfaction eating 
their Way into the very Vitals of the Business. 



Thousand Cobwebs 15 

And so the House of Musty passed through one 
weary Regime after another until its very Essence 
had been sapped and there was nothing left but 
the outward Hulk of an Enterprise once in its 
prime. 

It was at this Juncture — as they say in those 
exciting Sherlock Guck Stories — that Bob Ban- 
ning blew into Town and blew up to Musty *s. 
Bob's full Label in the Official Nomenclature of 
his Family was Robert Musty Banning. But, to 
all intents and practical purposes, he was just 
Plain Bob. 

Bob never let his Monicker worry him any. 
And it didn't! He always figured that one Handle 
is as good as another provided you know when to 
hook on to the Buzz-Wagon of Opportunity. 

Bob was just out of School but had crammed 
in some mighty helpful Business Experience 'tween 
Semesters and he was anxious to get into the Fray. 
To be sure, some of his Ideas on Business were a 
wee bit Utopian, but they were fresh and clean and 
worth trying. 

Some of the staid and sombre Folk at Home 
thought him a bit queer and offish, but affirmed 




He operated on the bland, sncokum- 

okunt principle that what was good 

enough for his ancestral strain zvas 

good enough for him 



Thousand Cobwebs ^7 

that he was a Likable Chap at that. While to 
others of the High and Mighty he was just too fly 
and flip and flighty. 

The Merchants in his College Town out of whom 
he had wormed Ads for the Campus Cleaner — the 
official School Paper — were wont to laugh at his 
Ideas for stimulating Trade. But, allee samee, 
they would come to and come through. 

Coming back, then, to Bob's Debut in Town — 
that memorable First Session with Mr. Musty, 
Proprietor of the Establishment which bore his 
Name, nearly took all the Breeze out of Bob's 
Sails. But he was game and veered right 'round 
on a Different Tack. He argued that he was 
entitled to a Job not because he was Musty 's 
Nephew but in spite of it. And, what is more, 
he got it! 

It didn't take Bob long to get his Bearings. 
And, when he did, he gave Vent to his Feelings by 
one long, low and mournful Whistle — thereby 
rudely disturbing a Neat Breastwork of Dust on 
a Ledge nearby. 

After doping it out from every Angle, Bob de- 
cided to pitch in and dust off as many Cobwebs as 



1 8 The House of a 

he could lay Hands on. He was no Messiah — this 
Bob Banning. He was not projected out of a 
Clear Sky to save Musty 's from crumpling up in 
the Dust of its own making. He was no Genius, 
no Marvel, no Medicine Man, no Miracle-Worker. 
His Ideas were neither Quixotic nor Chaotic. He 
was simply imbued with the Romance of Business. 

And, he had two Splendid Gifts. One was Per- 
spective — the other Initiative. He hadn't won 
any Scholarships in Mathematics and he didn't 
know a Rap about the Fourth Dimension. But 
he did know how to size up a proposition muy 
pronto! 

As for Starting Things on his own Hook, he had 
formulated for his own Use the characteristic 
Declaration that he who hesitates is bossed! 

During those First Few Months that Bob tried 
to put some of his Ideas into practical and profit- 
able Operation, he was about as popular as a Flock 
of Rodents at a Suffragette Convention. It is 
true, of course, that he had Musty 's inane Consent 
to go ahead. But Grim Precedent stalked the 
Store and balked him at every Turn. 

His first Sweeping Suggestion was — Brighten Up! 



Thousand Cobwebs 1 9 

He advised the Salesmen to perk up and inject a 
little Color into their own Attire and some Atmos- 
phere into the Store Proper. He explained that 
Occasional Laughter in a Business House is not 
irreverent and that a Man prefers to be smiled, not 
scowled, into a difficult Purchase. He showed 
them the Difference between Courtesy and Mock 
Humility and added that Hauteur was just as 
much out of place as Servility. 

In a friendly Chat with the Floormen he demon- 
strated how easy it was to get a little Personal 
Interest into their Voices when directing a Patron 
storeward. He showed how important was their 
Function of welcoming the Customer. He empha- 
sized that their Job embraced much more than the 
giving of Perfunctory Directions to the General 
Effect that "Men's belts are first aisle to the left!" 

At the cool, diffident Salesmen he leveled some 
new Conceptions in Salesmanship. He urged that 
when a Man came in to buy a Suit it was a human 
Business Transaction — not necessarily a lolling 
Social Event to be chronicled in the next day's 
Society Colyum. 

Besides, he was a Stickler for correct Business 




He explained that occasional laughter in 

a business house is not irreverent and 

that a man prefers to be smiled, not 

scowled, into a difficult purchase 



Thousand Cobwebs 2 1 

English. He showed the Selling Staff how much 
could be accomplished by Questions couched in 
Positive Terms. He instanced that a Man buying 
a Shirt does not wish to be asked, "How long do 
you wear your sleeves, sir?" 

He presented to the Store Management the con- 
crete Fact that the Window Displays — placed, as 
they were, in the very Vortex of Trade — repre- 
sented the most potential Method of Attracting 
Sales; and that, therefore, it was no Mandate of 
the God of Business that the Window Back- 
grounds could not be changed once in a while. 

He delineated the real Mission of Window Dis- 
play Cards. He urged that they could be made to 
really Say Something instead of allowing them to 
assume Conventional Attitudes and voice Hoary 
Platitudes. 

What's more, he completely revamped the Ad- 
vertising of Musty 's. And he did it successfully 
because he brought a New Viewpoint to bear. 

First — he injected some Amiability and Human 
Interest into the Advertising, displacing the stiff, 
formal and spasmodic Announcements hitherto em- 
ployed. He made the trite, commonplace Things 



2 2 The House of a 

of Store Life decidedly interesting. He sugar- 
coated nothing but invested his Business News 
with an Intrinsic Sensation that could not help but 
appeal. 

He made Sound Capital out of the Stability and 
Integrity of the Business and played up their 
Service and their Guarantee that never played 
hide-and-seek. He showed that his Store was not 
only a good Place to buy but a safe Place — a Place 
where Fathers could send their Youngsters with 
the Assurance that they would get a Four-Square 
Deal. 

He unearthed and rejuvenated the Store's Mail- 
ing List on the profitable Assumption that the Old- 
Line Customers would not be shocked occasionally 
to get a tasty Folder or Booklet detailing a current 
Store Event. 

He made the Delivery Department a pertinent 
Source of Exploitation and made the Public under- 
stand the seeming Paradox that a Sale is only half 
begun when it 's done. 

These and other Things did Bob Banning per- 
form for the revered House of Musty. True — it 
was hard, inexpressibly hard — to peel off the Wrap- 



Thousand Cobwebs 23 

pings of Decay — to tear away the Shroud of 
Sanctity that had been cast over Medieval Ideas 
and Mummified Practices. But he did it! 

The Transition did not take place in a Day or a 
Week or a Month. The Metamorphosis was slow 
— inevitably slow. But out of it rose a Newer and 
Better and Brighter Business. 

Moral: Tou never know how many cob- 

webs there are in your attic until some one 

whisks in with a duster. 



All to the Mustache 

Wherein // recorded the tale 

of a discerning youth Ippho laid 

siege to a lady' s heart in a 

manner at once peculiar 

and tonsorial 




[25] 



ALL to the MUSTACHE 

A Fable about the misplaced eyebrow that prospered 

EK him over from Hold to Mizzen Mast and 
Maurice Manning wasn't such a bad Chap 
at that. About the worst they could say- 
about him was that he chewed Gum incessantly 
and was partial to Blondes. 

But, then, lots of us are in the Same Dory with 
Maury — eh what? Come now, 'fess up! 

By dint of patient Plugging and Perseverance 
and much burning of the Midnight Mazda, 
Maurice had catapulted himself into the Swivel 
Chair of the Assistant Advertising Manager. Come 
to think of it, catapulted isn't the Word. He 
caterpillared in. 

Just how popular he was with the Boys in the 
Outer Office can be gauged by the fact that they 
had bestowed upon him the Subtle Sobriquet of 
'T'he Worm. Perhaps it was because he was forever 
chewing Wrigley *s. Again, they may have figured 
he traveled on his Belly as do some Portly Per- 
sonages with Pronounced Promontories. 

He was a typical Plodder, was Maurice. You 
couldn't, by any stretch of the Mental Trapeze, 



28 All to the Mustache 

label him temperamental. Calm, serene, un- 
ruffled — you*d think he had been born on Lake 
Placid. 

Earnest, willing, conscientious, competent — 
Maurice was any and all the Adjectives commonly 
bestowed on themselves by sanguine Business 
School Graduates when Replying to your Adver- 
tisement in Today's 'Times for a Fifteen DoUar-a- 
Week Office Assistant. Only, Maurice was there 
with the Goods — very much so. 

But, strange as it may seem, none of the Girls in 
the Office were especially crazy about him. All 
admitted he was an Accommodating Little Fellow 
and terribly competent. But that was all. 

Aside from the Slavey who doled out his Eats at 
Madame Granola's Boarding House, nary a Mem- 
ber of the Feminine Contingent had ever cast 
Meaningful Glances at him. Nor had any of 
them ever given him the least bit of Encourage- 
ment. About as far as any of them went was to 
accept a Julep Mint from Maurice as the Salivary 
Occasion offered. 

But there was One Little Blonde in particular 
on whom Maurice had had an Awful Case ever 



All to the Mustache 2 9 

since she'd unpacked her Charms and her Note 
Book. This particular Specimen of Feminine 
Architecture was the Boss' Own Steno and, say 
what you please about the Boss, he certainly knew 
how to pick *em. The Big Chief has always main- 
tained that a Good-Looker inspired him to bigger 
and brighter and more benign Thoughts. In 
short, he needed her in his Business. 

And Maurice had it doped out the same way. 
He needed her in his Business. But this par- 
ticular Offspring of Eve never looked at our Hero 
unless she had to, and when she did, she made him 
feel as if he'd forgotten Something. 

Now Maurice wasn't altogether a Grouch albeit 
a Phrenologist might have discovered a Bump of 
Crabbiness in his Dome. But gradually it dawned 
on him that when it came to making Overtures to 
the Fair Sex a la Bee-a-trice Fair-fax, he was very 
much -persona non grata — as the Highbrows put it. 

"Humph!" you grunt by way of interpolation. 
"What did he want to monkey 'round the Dames 
for — a nice little Chap like that? Why didn't he 
leave well enough alone? — the Big Gob!" 

Well, you see, that's the Hopeful Part of it: it 



30 All to the Mustache 

showed Brother Maurice was human. And it got 
his Ram to see how the Girls made a Fuss over 
these Nincompoops who hadn*t an Idea in their 
Heads — or a BriUiant Epigram at their Tongues* 
End but, who — 

Quick, Watson, my Ever-Ready — Flash! — 
Flash — an I-D-E-A! The very thing! He would 
do it! What if the Fellows did kid him about it? 
You couldn^t pull any kind of a Martyr Stunt 
these days without encountering Derisive Guf- 
faws! Yes, he would! — blast his Top-Piece if he 
didn't! He would grow a Mustache! 

How? What? When? Why? Patience, Patricia, 
read on ! 

To be sure, Maurice appreciated that at his 
period of Adolescence he couldn't expect a Ton- 
sorial Harvest. But he figured he could keep the 
Hedges trimmed so as to make it look like a Good- 
sized Crop held in Leash. 

No sooner had he conceived his great, Danderine 
Idea than he proposed to put it into Execution. 
Upon second thought, it seemed advisable to defer 
the Landscape Effect until his Vacation hove to, 
which was only a matter of a Week or Two. 



All to the Mustache 3^ 

While on his Vacation Maurice assiduously 
cultivated his Mustache and made Two Blades 
grow where none grew before. Day after day he 
pirouetted before the Mirror and observed the 
beneficent Effects of Intensive Cultivation. 

Even before he left the Barb-wired Precincts of 
the Farm where he had been vacationing, Maurice 
noticed the Hired Girl had begun to oogle-google 
him. This, decidedly, was a New Experience. 
He didn't know whether she had gone batty in 
this Adamless Eden or whether it was the Mus- 
tache — so called by Extreme Tonsorial Courtesy. 
At any rate, he gave the Mustache the Benefit of 
the Doubt. Believe me, it needed it! 

On the Train back to the City, into whose 
Voracious Maw had toppled Maurice and thou- 
sands like him, he observed that, while the "News 
Butcher " had snickered at sight of his Acquisition, 
several Young Women Passengers had cast shy 
but approving Glances at his Thoughtful Counte- 
nance. 

Maurice felt the warm Glow of Accomplishment 
permeate his Entire Being. . Sitting up and taking 
notice now — weren't they? Said Glow was elec- 




But there was one little blonde in pcW' 

ticular on whom Maurice had had an 

atvful case ever since she'd unpacked 

her charms and her note book 



All to the Mustache 3 3 

trical in its Tonic Effect. It must have brought 
at least one more Hair Follicle to the Region of 
his Upper Lip. 

But Maurice, vain though he was becoming, was 
too much of a Campaigner to place Sole Reliance 
on the Hirsute Adornment of his Physog — as those 
uncouth Sport Writers dearly love to phrase it. 
This was going to be merely le piece de resistance 
a la Ed. Pinaud — savvy? 

When it got bruited about in the Office that 
"The Worm had not alone turned but had returned, 
be-mustached, be-mannered and be-manicured, the 
Young Ladies Present craned their Elf-like Necks 
to see the Innocent Little Thing that had caused 
all this Hubbub. With few exceptions, they took 
pains to assure Maurice that it was "positively 
becoming" and. Goodness! Gracious! — why hadn't 
he thought of it before? 

Maurice accepted this Flood of Feminine Ecstasy 
with the utmost Nonchalance and proceeded to 
follow up this Ante by hiring a Strange Young Girl 
to write him about a Half Dozen Letters a day, 
Sundays included. These were to be addressed to 
him at the Office, most assuredly. 



34 All to the Mustache 

Maurice told the Girl he didn*t care especially 
what she said or didn't say. The Big Thing was 
to use Stationery that was distingue and to have 
the Chirography essentially feminine. The Salu- 
tation in each Affectionate Instance was to be 
something like Heart of Mine, Honey-bunch, Ton 
Dream Man, My Great Big Boy — nothing tamer 
than Maury Darling. On occasion, the Recipient 
of these Saccharine Messages would leave one of 
these Affectionettes lying carefully careless on his 
Desk so that those who ran by might read. 

Did it work? Say, does a Frog croak ? 

He also cooked up a deal with the Slavey at the 
Boarding House who had a Silvery Voice even if 
she did dress like Mary Pickford in "Hulda from 
Holland.'' The Idea was for her to phone him at 
the Office at least once a day, ask him how he felt, 
whether he got Home all right the night before, 
thank him for the Box of Huyler's or Orchids he 
hadn't sent and, in general, to let some of her 
Boundless Passion and Undying Love ooze over 
the Wires so his Operator would be sure to get an 
Earful, good and plenty. Slavey was admonished 
further never to hang up without murmuring 



All to the Mustache 3 5 

''Goodbye, Dear" and to say it tremulously as if 
it severed her very Heart Strings to disconnect. 

Did it work? Say, does a Grasshopper hop ? 

To supplement this he arranged with the Handy 
Man about Madame Granola's Abode to call him 
up at certain, prescribed Intervals when he would 
be sure to be out of the Office. When the Operator 
asked Mr. Handy Man for the Message, that was 
his Cue to smear a little Three-in-One on his Vocal 
Chords — ahem! — and say that Mr. Gotkale was 
speaking and that he had merely wished to know 
if Mr. Manning's Engagements would permit him 
to dine with him at the Club that night. 

T>id it work? Say, do Jersey *Skeeters bite? 

The Fifth Spoke in Maurice's Campaign Wheel 
was to arrange with another partis criminis to 
'phone his Office and leave word that Crepe and 
Drape, Exclusive Fifth Avenoo Tailors, wished 
him to come down for his Fittings as soon as con- 
venient. 

Did it work? Say, does your Pet Corn signal 
Blue Jay when the Weather's turning? 

It wasn't very long before Things began to 
happen. Results were due and Maurice knew he 




He made two blades grow where none efew 

before. Day after day he pirouetted before 

the mirror and observed the beneficent 

effects of intensive cultivation 



All to the Mustache zi 

was going to cash in on his Cumulative Effect 
before long. 

He did! All the Sweet Young Things in the 
Office were right on tap with the Bright Good 
Morning Smile and even the Little Blonde be- 
gan to hover 'round more than seemed necessary. 

Now this Ravishing Creature was what they 
call a Decided Blonde. Only, some of the less 
favored ones in the Office got catty and said it was 
evident that she'd only decided recently. Never- 
theless, the Fact remains that she was Considerable 
Cuckoo in her Own Little Right — even the Boss 
admitted it. 

When this Tidal Wave of Popularity began to 
inundate Friend Maurice the Little Blonde in 
Question was right there with the Water Wings 
and kept Abreast of the Times. Pretty soon she 
found herself taking a Mental Inventory of 
Maurice who suddenly loomed large on the 
Horizon of Desirability. He measured up pretty 
well, she found, and she wondered who that Hussy 
was that called him up every day and dispensed 
those Monosyllabic Gurglings found only in 
Cupid's Compendium for Clandestine Croonies. 



38 All to the Mustache 

Throughout this time, you understand, Maurice 
played his Cards like a Regular and kept rather 
aloof from the Office Bunch. Indeed, the Casual 
Observer was left to infer that it was a Relief for 
him occasionally to get away from the Arena of 
Ardent Admirers. 

But the Little Blonde took it so to Heart that 
even the Boss — who was a good Diagnostician and 
who recognized all the Symptoms of the Incipient 
Stage — asked her who HE was and whether he 
could be of any Paternal Help in the matter. 

After considerable Blushing, Bleating and other 
Functional Disturbances of the Sympathetic 
Nervous System, Little Blondey 'fessed up and 
baffed the Whole Thing. 

And thus it happened that the Boss — who was 
a Good Samaritan even if he did rap Prohibition 
— passed the Ball to Maurice, told him not to 
fumble it, and said he didn't deserve as fine a Girl 
as that but he would do what he could in the 
Hymeneal Matter. 

After that it was only a Short Distance to the 
Little Church Around the Corner, and of all the 
Blessings and Benedictions lavished on the Radiant 



All to the Mustache 3 9 

Couple none were so much appreciated as that 
which made its Presence felt every ensuing Satur- 
day in Maurice's Envelope. 

And now after a Lapse of some Time, as they 
say on the Theatre Program, the only Dark 
Streak on Maurice's Horizon of Marital Bliss is 
whether he should be a Good Soldier and outline 
the modus operandi to Wifey. But he thinks that 
when the Little Stranger eventually comes out 
with his Opening Announcement it will be a more 
Strategic Time for Father to disclose the Plan of 
Campaign that produced such corking good Re- 
sults. 

Moral: 'Don't envy the chaps who corral 
the ladies. Get a lass-o yourself! 



The Late Mr. Jazz 

Wherein // recorded the tale 
of a chap who was neither a 
bee nor a lounge li:^ard hut 
who danced away his pre- 
cious hours forever 
and aye 




[41] 



The LATE MR. JAZZ 

A Fable about the clerk with the bumble foot 

TERPSICHORE must have stood in high 
favor with the Gods on that fateful day 
when Jeremiah Jazz was ushered into this 
Whirly-world of ours — for thus was his Name re- 
corded on the flyleaf of the Family Bible. 

By all the laws of Eugenics and Gravitation 
Jeremiah should have gone in for Folk Dancing 
and other Manifestations of the Fine Arts. It 
really was too bad he hadn't been christened 
Vernon Tassle or Ted Fawn or he might have 
studded some Dancing Sky of his own. But Fate 
— demure little Devil that she is — puckered her 
brow and pouted her pert little lips, and neatly 
deposited Sir Jeremiah in a Stamping Ground no 
less prosaic than Hammock's Haberdashery. No 
telling what numbers roll out of the Dice-box when 
Life gets in its shaking hand. 

Now Jeremiah was a pretty good Salesman — 
as Salesmen come and go. But Jeremiah's prime 
mission in Life was not how much Work he could 
crowd into the allotted span of toil, but how much 
Fun he could jam in after the Curfew had tolled 



44 The Late Mr. Jazz 

the Knell of parting day. Work was all right — a 
chap had to do a certain amount of Labor to get 
by. But where was the Harm in stepping out o' 
nights and seeing the city *s sights ? Gosh all hem- 
lock, if a Fellow didn't get out and around while 
he was young and sprightly, what was the use of 
being dapper and enticing — eh, what? And why 
should a Duffer spend his evenings " improving his 
mind" when a Twinkling Little Damsel like 
Dorothy Dove was ready to act as his personal 
tutor in the High Art of Genuflection ? 

Youth must have its Fling and, after all. Busi- 
ness was such a Beastly Thing — a Bitter Pill to be 
swallowed every morning except Sunday and 
emitted every evening at the first swish after six. 
So our blithe little Jeremiah pursued the even 
Caruso of his way — dispensing genial Smiles of 
strong savor and striking flavor — until he became 
known up and down the Rialto as Jerry the Joy 
Boy. He knew all the road inns along the scoot- 
ing way to Baron Short's, where a mellow Traveler 
might wax a degree mellower and roar with his 
tankard of " musty." He followed in the wake of 
every new Step much after the fashion of a new- 



The Late Mr. Jazz 45 

foaled Colt trailing its Dam. He knew every 
Dance to every jot and tittle. And for sheer 
ethereal Pleasure — why, there was nothing like 
whisking along the polished floor with a lithesome 
little Lady clad in Pneumonia Draperies. 

At such Dancing Fiestas it was only natural that 
one should crave a bit of Liquid by way of after- 
refreshment. "Make 'em tall and heave *em 
high/* was Jerry's usual laconic instruction to the 
white-clad Ambassador who ministered to the 
Thirst of famished folk in this Spirit-ual Oasis. 

And our mutual Jerry always was generous with 
his Emoluments — yea, verily! No piking Lad 
was he! As the gallant Cavalier who paid for 
each round as it came round, Jerry was permitted 
usually to monopolize the Conversation. Once he 
got started he was a regular Gabber from Gabber- 
ville — his Tongue was hung in the middle and loose 
at both ends. He couldn 't hold a Store Secret any 
more than a chronic Old Maid can go to bed with- 
out looking under said bed for the he-man Burglar 
who invariably disappoints her by never showing up. 

And so Jerry would regale his fellow revelers with 
Anecdotes — some real but for the better part 



UKaittrtiiyXJtutViXii/amnK-, 



f^ 


fe=- 


t4 




m 



For sheer ethereal pleasure there tvas 

nothing like whisking along the pot 

ished floor with a lithesome little lady 

clad in pneumonia draperies 



The Late Mr. Jazz 47 

imaginary— designed to instill into their receptive 
Think-tanks how stale was the Mind of his Boss, 
Mr. Hammock, and how swingy was his own. 
When it came to overworking the Personal Pro- 
noun in his own behalf Jerry was simply there a 
Million. Indeed, the casual Listener was given to 
infer that, were it not for the Sagacity and Per- 
spicacity of this modest Mr. Jazz, the prosperous 
Establishment of Hammock's would have long 
since taken up its abode in R. G. Dun 's Mausoleum 
of Businesses That Were But Aren't. 

Things were going along swimmingly enough 
until one fine Day in the month of May when Jerry 
was respectfully invited to visit the Sanctum of 
the Boss. Jerry did not lay any special emphasis 
on this Invitation until he hove to on the star- 
board side of Mr. Hammock's moorings and ob- 
served the Clouds gathering on the Horizon. 
"Looks like Rain/' Jerry threw out by way of 
Camaraderie. " More like a Squall, I should say," 
came back Mr. Hammock in similar kind. And 
the Boss was considerable Weather-Prophet in his 
own right. Well, anyway, it was considerable 
Squall, as the Nurse going off duty in the Nursery 



48 The Late Mr. Jazz 

remarks to the Handsome Interne making his 
rounds. By the time the Boss got through Jerry- 
felt about as important as six bits in a peanut shell. 

In his gay and flippant moments Jerry had often 
averred that Old Man Hammock looked like a de- 
termined Old Duck — in fact, he had a Jaw like a 
miniature Snow-plow. Yet, when Jerry got out- 
side the Boss' Threshold and came up for Air, so 
to speak in the language of the U-Boaters, he fig- 
ured that Old Hammock's bawling out was just a 
lot of Dead Talk stuffed with big Words and strung 
with Wires. Notice that I say he "figured" that 
way. But, while Jerry may have been a World- 
beater at the newest Tickle-toe and a Riot with the 
Feminine Contingent of Pulchritude, he never 
was a candidate for a C. P. A. degree. The net 
result of his Trial-balancing was that, a week or 
two thereafter, he was told gently but firmly that 
Hammock's would have to swing along without 
his Able Assistance. 

Did Jerry the Joy Boy take it hard to Heart? 
Nay, nay. Mazurka! Why worry about Jobs 
when Good Men were always in demand? And 
why work for a Bolsheviky Boss who insisted on 



The Late Mr. Jazz 49 

knowing what a Man did with his Evenings when 
it was none of his bloomin* business? 

So Jerry deftly affiliated himself with a Store of 
lesser Prestige. What if the Weekly Envelope 
were not quite so corpulent in design? What if 
the Surroundings were not quite so restful to a 
person of his aesthetic Tendencies? What if the 
Customers were not quite so recherche and dis- 
tingue} (Ah yes. Monsieur, it's a beautiful lan- 
guage.) 

Besides, Jerry was going to turn over a New 
Leaf. To this end he bethought himself of a Plan 
of Pseudo-Industry that would surely bring him 
into the Good Graces of the Management. The 
Plan, stripped of its Garnish and Varnish, was 
simply to work like a Beaver while he was being 
watched, but to quit propelling the Trowel the 
moment the keen Observer hied himself to Other 
Pastures. When the Floorman had his Eyes 
preened on Jerry he would work like a Troj an. He 
would be as busy as a Bee in a Tar Barrel. But all 
the Work he did when he was not under Surveil- 
lance you could pack into^ an Ant's Ear without 
impairing its hearing. 




Jerry did not lay any special emphasis on the 

invitation until he hove to on the starboard side 

of Mr. Hammock's moorings and observed the 

clouds gathering on the horizon 



The Late Mr. Jazz 5 ^ 

Great idea, Jerry! But, as I say, he was some 
neat little Figurer and in his reckoning he forgot 
the salient fact that a man 's individual Sales-book 
is a pretty good index to a man's individual In- 
dustry. And so — when sales in Jerry's Neck of 
the Woods began to slump diligently and with 
steadfast fervor, he was told gently but firmly that 
the Management would have to dispense with his 
August Presence beginning the week thereafter. 

By this time, Jerry was beginning to lose some 
of his Sunny Disposition. What a Thankless 
World this was, anyway! Also, he had begun to 
cultivate a steadily growing Peeve against his 
erstwhile Employers, against the necessity of Mun- 
dane Toil, against the Universe as a whole and 
against Mr. Jazz himself. If anyone would fain 
nudge him in the Ribs and point out the error and 
terror of his Ways, Jerry would kindly inform the 
well-meaning Counselor that unless he laid off of 
this Billy Sunday stuff, there would be Flowers at 
the house of Mr. Would-Be-Evangelist the next 
morning, but he would not be there to smell them. 

Even when he got a job, as an "Extra" in the 
hit- 'em-lively Establishment of Hank & Yank — he 



5 2 The Late Mr. Jazz 

couldn't understand why Mr. Hank, who was 
commonly acknowledged a Good Sport, should 
frown when he saw him time and again whirling 
away the hours in the Cafe Parfait and other Per- 
fumed Palaces for Gladsome Gliders. 

And now, dear patient-eyed reader, I should 
like to top off with the usual Happy Ending and 
show how Jerry Jazz suddenly took another Hitch 
in his Belt, changed his Tune and watched his Step 
until he had re-climbed all the rungs of the Fabled 
Ladder that leads to the Balmy Plains of Success. 
But, alas, I have gone and done it with my little 
Waterman and I cannot lie! 

So, I must perforce leave Jerry as I found him 
the other night — poor as Job's Turkey, but proud 
as Lucifer — seemingly carefree, but actually wor- 
ried — and cussing his luck to the lilting tune of "I 
Should Pucker and Be Perturbed!" 

There he sat eyeing the Dingy Tint of his Hem- 
stitched Room with disdain and wondering what 
was happening to this Hectic World of ours. How 
could the Cocktails he imbibed the evening before 
find reflection in Indifference to Customers, per- 
haps Discourtesy, Lost Sales and all-around 



The Late Mr. Jazz 5 3 

Inefficiency? Why should the Boss concern himself 
with what Jerry did evenings — just so long as he 
showed up on the tick of the clock every day? 
Where were the Good Old Days when men might 
play Stud and drink Suds the night through and 
show up bleary-eyed but game the morning after? 
Good night, Jericho! — what was this hifalutin' 
World coming to, anyway? 

And so, in the fullness of his bitter heart, Jerry 
the Joy Boy laid himself down to sleep and dreamt 
— of what? Of the day when he would mend his 
Ways and come up smiling? Of the day when he 
would flaunt his own transcendent Establishment 
in the Marts of Trade? Nay, nay, Cleoportia! 
He dreamt — ah! Treacherous Morpheus! — he 
dreamt that he was whisking along the polished 
floor of the Cafe Par fait with lithesome, blithesome 
Dorothy Dove! 

Moral: 'Timers whirligig turns apples of 
promise into ashes of regret. 



Go Thou and Sin Some More 

Wherein is recorded the tale of 

a society matron who craved 

a place in the sun hut who 

wouldn^t admit it for 

the Ipporld 




[55] 



GO THOU and SIN 
SOME MORE 

A Fable about the lady who loved the glare 

ONCE upon a Time there was a Young Soci- 
ety Matron named Clara Calcium who 
had carved for herself an enviable Niche 
in Society's Hall of Fame. But, Gadzooks and 
Gosh All Fish-Hooks ! — how she did hate Publicity ! 

That is, she gave you that Impression sub rosa. 
But deep down in her Heart of Hearts (Boy, page 
Mr. Trump!) she reveled in it. She laved herself 
in it and sated her Soul with it. To her it was 
Ambrosia, Nectar and Mellin's all in one Airy 
Package. 

The only Medico in the World who could soothe 
her Social Ills and Aches was Doctor Publicity. 
For he alone could dispense the Celestial Balm of 
a Three Column Caption and an Art Photograph 
(Copyright by Underhood & Underhood) on the 
page dedicated to the Escapades of the Elite. 

It was a case of twinge-twinge, tingle-tingle. 
Then her Social Secretary would tinkle- tinkle a 
la Alexander Graham, and there — from out the 



5 8 Go Thou and 

Society Page of tomorrow 's Daily Screech — Milady 
Calcium would twinkle-twinkle at you. 

Whenever she got unusually wrought up and had 
a Fit of Nerves she wouldn \ give vent to her Out- 
raged Feelings by opening up the Lachrymal 
Ducts. Nay, nay, Lucina — the Water Rate was 
too high! 

Instead, she would pour her Story into the 
listening, not to say glistening. Ear of the Society 
Editor. And what a Dear Little Creature she 
was! So sweet and sympathetic and so full of 
Discernment and Understanding. My, my! 

If you got to know this Sublime Personage quite 
well she would wax confidential and tell you how 
she just loathed to be interviewed. But — 

She wouldn't tell you how many times she had 
set her Little Big Ben so she could come out of 
Morpheus' Embrace betimes and see what that 
fussy and fuzzy-looking Sob Sister had said about 
her. Yea, verily, the Ways of Society are devious. 

She had a Creed of her own— did Clara Calcium. 
She paid attention to Trifles on the Theory that a 
Genius must have an Infinite Capacity for taking 
Pains as well as Gains. And she took both! 



Sin Some More 5 9 

She had dipped deep enough into the Chafing 
Dish of Ancient History to know that the Cackle 
of a Goose had saved Rome from surprise and ruin. 
So she kept her Aural Appendage pretty close to 
the Turf and never passed up a Bet. 

She knew that Silence is Golden and this ex- 
plained why so many of her Sisters in Crime were 
always broke. And she knew that Pluck always 
wins — especially if she did the Plucking. 

As a Purveyor of Things subtle and significant 
she ranked Ace-high. She operated on the con- 
servative Theory that one Touch of Gossip makes 
the whole World chin. While her Daughter Caprice 
who had just issued from Madame Veneer's Fin- 
ishing School (only highest priced Varnishes used) 
was wont to flit around the House in Imaginary 
Draperies on the nude and rude Theory that one 
Yard of Georgette Crepe covers a Multitude of 
Shins. 

Most of us are lucky if our Five Senses are up to 
SnufF— if not to Sniffles. But our Dear Little 
Clara was gifted with a Sixth Sense — a Sense of 
Rumor. 

She was adroit at starting Rumors about the 




. . .so she could come out of Mor- 
pheus' embrace betimes and see 
tvhat that fussy and fuzzy-looking 
sob sister had said about her 



Sin Some More 6 1 



Betrothal of her Offspring Clarice to every betitled 
and bedizzened Notable in the Land. It got so 
bad that, to keep tab of the Counts in the Case, 
her Social Secretary had to buy a Burroughs. 

As for the nominal Master of the House, he was 
just that—nominal! He began, and ended, there. 
His Club Comrades labeled him a Regular Fellow 
— the kind of Chap who could warm the Cockles 
of your Heart. But with a Wife of Clara *s fiery 
Type he had about as much Chance as the Prover- 
bial Snowball has to be congealed in the Nether 
Regions. 

He had been in Hymen 's Bondage long enough 
to know that Men think they fall in Love (what- 
ever that is) when they really fall for it. And 
during those rare, peaceful Spasms when Clara 
Dear wasn't yanking him up for something or 
other, he would flop wearily into his Library Chair 
and wade through the Britannica looking for Close- 
ups of Savages who had never adopted the Chainy 
Custom of Matrimony. 

He observed invariably how happy they looked. 
And then he would wish — but, oh Shucks, if Wishes 
were Aeroplanes, Elephants would fly! 



62 Go Thou and 

But to Clara, her Hubby was just a diddering, 
doddering Dunce — a blithering, blubbering, bloom- 
in' Idiot who had kept out of the Psychopathic 
Ward only because of his plethoric Dough Bag. 
In short. Good Wife's Opinion of Friend Husband 
was summed up in that great cryptic expression, 
ne coco domo. 

Clara's chief Hobby was to pan Hubby. And 
whenever she pulled out her Assay Kit he essayed 
not a Murmur. For, didn't he savvy that her 
Analysis would show lots and lots of Solid Ore but 
not even a pallid Streak o-f Gray Matter? So, 
what was the Diffy-diff? 

Whenever Clara could call a Quorum she would 
lament that her Hubby — whom everybody thought 
was just the Grandest Thing Ever — wasn't a bit 
sympathetic. It was funny — wasn't it? — how a 
Man could get a Rep for being kind and attentive 
and considerate when he was really morose and 
crabby and grumpy ? 

And besides, k was hard— wasn't it? — to find 
some one who really understood you — some one who 
could peer into the Windows of your Soul with 
Real Feeling — some one who could gaze into your 



Sin Some More 63 

Limpid Pools and rave about the Heavenly Ripples 
reflected therein? Y-e-s, it was hard — wasn't it? 

And then the Quorum would retire into Secret 
Session and aver that the Poor Dear didn *t know 
how fortunate she really was. If she only had 
their Beastly Hubbies to deal with — what then? 
Why, she'd have some real, honest-to-badness 
cause for her Outbursts of Poutish Petulance. So 
she might as well put that in her Lamp and light it. 
Now, there! Flicker, flicker! 

Among the Slavics in the Household it was Ye 
Common Gossip that whenever Monsieur Hubby 
tried to pull the Anvil Chorus on any of her Am- 
bitious Schemes, Madame Clara would be sure to 
register Deep Disdain. 

Then she would dam this up with some mild, 
imported Profanity and inform him that she 
didn't want him to look at her in that Tone of 
Voice. 

And that was all there was to it! By the Time 
she got through he was hoisted on his own Petard. 
So what, pretty prithee, was the Use? 

Altogether, Hubby was. rather a prosaic, matter- 
of-fact Chap whose Idea of a loudly quiet Time was 




It tvas hard—wasn 't it T — to find someone xvho 

really understood you— someone who could 

gaze into your limpid pools and rave about 

the heavenly ripples reflected therein 



Sin Some More 65 

to pufF away at a Choice Havana the while he 
reveled in the Intricacies of Ruskin and the Subtle- 
ties of Addison. 

He went in for Sports about as much as Three 
Star Hennessy went in for Soft Drinks. He knew 
as much about Bagging Quail, for instance, as a 
Buddhist Priest knows about Kelly Pool. 

But Clara Dear insisted that he be accoutred in 
full Hunting Regalia so as to get one of those "I- 
don't-really- care-to-pose" Pictures in The^Sheeps. 
head Review and other Periodicals perused by the 
Coupon-clipping Contingent. 

And what a busy-dizzy Clubwoman our Clara 
was! Every time Billy Sunday calendared in to 
clean up the Town, she would have the Oily Presi- 
dent of her Club anoint her Chairman of the 
Committee for the Suppression of Vice. This 
would, of course, necessitate relatively frequent 
Limousine Excursions into Regions not especially 
covered in our Eighth Grade Geographies. 

Upon such Occasions she would volunteer the 
Sinformation that she didn't mind being dragged 
through Miles of Vice to glimpse a few Rods of 
Virtue. And besides, one would be apt to see so 



66 Go Thou and 

many i-n-t-e-r-e-s-t-i-n-g Things (Class in Deep 
Breathing will now exhale). 

So you can see that, all in all, our Clara was a 
Live Wire when it came to distributing the Current 
of her Thoughts about Town. 

She Knew that a Man is as Old as his Arteries 
and she added that a Woman is as Old as her 
Knees. Accordingly, she did not propose to be- 
come fat and flabby and fatigued at forty. Neither 
did she propose to relapse into the pudgy-squdgy 
Attitude assumed by those Chronic Society 
Matrons whose Genuflections are confined to their 
Activities in the Rocking Chair Squadron. 

All of which is designed to show that our Dear 
Little Clara was muchly human. And whether it 
was a Poodle Dog Show she was fostering, or a 
Red Cross Benefit, or an Ultra-New Thought Club, 
or an Anti-Noise or Anti-Smoke Campaign, or a 
New Home for Wayward Waifs — she would al- 
ways have everything rigged up to the Queen's 
Dehrium so that the Sob Squad could go to it in 
Big League Fashion. 

But, alas, when the Poipers did not come through 
with the Printed Delicacies she so relished — that 



Sin Some More 67 

was Clara's Cue to register Indignation done to a 
turn and served on a platter of art. And whether 
she got a Half Inch Squib or a Half Page Spread 
she would always murmur petulantly, "The 
stingy things!'* 

And yet, it was funny — wasn't it? — how she did 
hate Publicity! 

Moral : T'he bigger they are^ the harder 
they fall— ^f or it. 



The Fiasco of Flavius Flivver 

Wherein is recorded the tale of 

the fledgling who tried to pitch 

in the big leagues before he had 

'>pparmed a bench in 

the hushes 




J 



l«9l 



<^ 



The FIASCO 
o/FLAVIUS FLIVVER 

A Fable about the prodigy who petered out 

ONCE Upon a Time there was a Chap named 
' Flavius Flivver who was a regular Chip off 
the Old Block — with Emphasis on the 
Block. If anything, he was Chipper. What he 
didn't know about Advertising and Selling wasn't 
carved on Cleopatra's Needle. And there is con- 
siderable Carving on said Obelisk. 

Flavius had just reached the Eligible Age where 
he was being invited out to all the House Parties 
engineered by meaningful and mercenary-minded 
Mammas. Upon such Occasions he would be- 
come the Center of an animated Group composed 
largely of Ripening Dianas and Venuses de Stylo. 

Their Cue it was to hand out Plaudits Aplenty 
— to reel off Laughter upon the slightest Provoca- 
tion — and, further, to assure guileless Flavius that 
he was just too clever for anything! 

No matter what Flavius said — whether he spilled 
something from Last Year's Life or pulled a Pun 
that had come out of the Maternity Ward about 



7 2 The Fiasco of 

the same time he had — the Appreciative Audience 
was there with the Ripples of Laughter and Stac- 
cato of Applause. 

You see, dear reader, our Flavius was born under 
the Auspices of a Constellation his Official Astrolo- 
ger couldn't exactly locate; but everybody else 
could. The common, Milk-and-Mush Name for 
this particular Starless Star was Nobody Home, 

The morning after such a Successful Seance, 
Flavius would show up at the Office with his Cere- 
bellum Stock away above par. Not even the Rank 
Rot he doled out in his Dictation nor the Bulls 
in Lingo his demure Stenog corrected, could yank 
him off his Pearly Pedestal. 

There were Two Things about which Flavius 
would wax most enthusiastic. One was his Alma 
Mater and the other was Flavius Flivver. Start 
him off on Any Subject and he would be sure to 
wind up with the Big Discourse on Flavius Flivver, 
A. B. Which meant, in the Parlance of those who 
knew him well, Flavius Flivver, All Bone. 

While at College, Flavius had become quite 
adept at the Fox-trot and could execute any Gyra- 
tion or Gondola-glide a la Vernon Castle. But the 



Flavins Flivver 73 

Pedantic Profs in their own learned fashion had 
examined his Think-Tank and found it quite 
empty. 

So that about the Time his Finals were due, 
Flavius Senior, who was a pretty shrewd Old Boy 
at that — out of sheer Goodness of Heart and as 
his Meagre Tithe to the God of Learning — an- 
nounced a Munificent Gift to the University which 
cloistered his Filial Offspring. 

Thus, by means devious and otherwise, Flavius 
cajoled his beloved Alma Mater into giving him 
a Sheepskin with his Name lettered in Old English, 
and which would look swell in his Den, right next 
to the Picture of that Cutey Pony in the latest 
Giggly-Girl Show. 

After a Finishing Trip Abroad, Flavius wasn 't 
any too anxious to enter the Flivver Factory but 
Pater insisted. Accordingly, Flavius was made 
Father's Official Oracle and Coadjutor in Crime. 

When Flavius entered the Flivver Fort he was 
asked his Forte which was writing the Advertising. 
For how else could he disburse the Wisdom of the 
Ages and the Prattle of, the Sages that he had 
stored up in his Mental Silo? To be sure, he had 




Upon such occasions Flavins would become the 

center of an animated group composed largely 

of Ripening Dianas and Venuses de Stylo 



Flavins Flivver 75 

been Joke Editor of his College Paper and he knew 
how to cull Humor out of the acknowledged Cul- 
leries by the Simple Expedient of a Scissors and a 
Pot of Paste. Besides, hadn't he read a Raft of 
Books on Efficiency and the Psychology of Adver- 
tising and a lot of other Fool Stuff? 

The Advertising Manager, to whom the Noviti- 
ate was turned over for bridling, asked him if he 
could write good, sane, Yankee-Doodle Copy. 
Could he? Well, rather! Didn't he know the 
I. C. S. Advertising Handbook from kivver to 
kivver ? 

The Copy turned out by Fledgling Flavius was 
just too terrible for Words. The Advertising 
Manager, who had cut his Wisdom Teeth long 
before Flavius had acquired his Milkers, got a 
polite Memorandum from the Purchasing Agent 
asking him for the Love of his Annual Report to 
go easy on the Blue Pencils. 

Flavius had never been used to such Rough 
Treatment and he didn't propose to stand the 
Gaff. He would show the old carping Crab his 
Place in the Setting Sun! ^ 

Alas, things came to such a Blue Pass that one 



7 6 The Fiasco of 

Dark Day Flavius invaded his Father's Sanctum 
and averred that his Chief required the services of 
an Oculist and didn't know it. He affirmed that 
the Old Duffer was afflicted with Myopia and 
couldn't tell good Copy from bad. And, further, 
that his Business Perspective needed a new Coat- 
ing of Mental Valspar. 

The Poor Lad took it so to heart that Dear Old 
Dad was constrained to request the Master of 
Advertising Ceremonies to abdicate in favor of his 
Heir and Assign Forever. It was a case of any- 
thing to keep Peace in the Family. 

The next morning Flavius' Chest Expansion 
registered a material Increase. Now he was in his 
Element! Now watch him pull a Stunt or two! 
He would make the Welkin ring! He would smite 
the Cymbals and call the Clans! He would make 
the Pavements resound to the Thwack-Thwack of 
Flivver's Fawncy Footwear! His Stuff was going 
to bang the Ultimate Consumer right on the 
Cabeza between the Two Glimmers! Yo Ho, and 
a Bottle of Rummy Ink! 

About the First Act the New Prodigy performed 
was to put the Kibosh on the elaborate System of 



Flavins Flivver ll 

Follow-Ups designed to line up Prospective Deal- 
ers. He argued that if a Fellow didn*t buy right 
off the bat, what was the Use of wasting more 
Time on him? And, besides, didn't the Men on 
the Road get around Twice a Year and jog these 
Fellows up ? 

Act Number Two was to ring down the Curtain 
on the Trade Paper Advertising. What good did 
it do, anyway? And, again, he could use that 
Money in some corking good Magazines read by 
Debutantes, Dilettantes and other Damphool 
Decoctions of Society's Crucible. Where did 
these plain, plebeian Merchants come in for Atten- 
tion anyway? 

Act Number Three was to use One Cent Postage 
on his Sales Letters because they weren 't read any- 
how. And where, prithee, was the Sense in using 
Two Cent Postage on such Haphazard Stuff? 

Act Number Four was to put out their New 
Catalog on Phoney Stock that made his Halftones 
look about as clean and dapper as a bleary-eyed 
Compositor the Morning After. 

Act Number Five was to guillotine the series of 
Dealer-Helps which heretofore had been part of 




His stuff was going to bang the Ultimate 

Consumer right on the cabeza between the 

two glimmers. Yo ho, and a bottle of 

rummy ink! 



Flavius Flivver 79 

the regular Advertising Program. Instead, he 
hired a Cheap Artist to get up a Dandy Poster that 
made their new Fall Model look like a Futuristic 
Interpretation of the Map of Italy. 

And just look at all the Money he was saving the 
Firm! Zowie — wouldn^t he make some Hit with 
the Old Man ! He could picture in his Mind 's Eye 
how the Governor would smile all over and pat him 
on the Back, alright, alright! 

The Merry Carnage continued until one Perfect 
Day when Flavius was summoned rather peremp- 
torily to the Sanctum Sanctorum and confronted 
with some Cold-Turkey Facts warranted to chill 
his Appetite for Dinner. It seemed that Sales had 
been hitting the Toboggan something fierce; and 
while the Big Chief wasn't developing Pedal 
Frigidity he naturally wanted to know whence 
Cometh this awful Slump in Business. 

Flavius rejoined that it couldn't be the Adver- 
tising because look at the Clever Stuff he was 
running in T^own Tattle and Newport Nips, Grace- 
ful, stunning and tendril-like, dontcherknowl 

But gruff Old Pater called the Turn by present- 
ing some concrete Tabulations from Department 



8 o The End of Flavins Flivver 

Heads indicating a woeful Lack of Interest upon 
the part of their Dealers. This was accompanied 
by the Suggestion, which was respectfully sub- 
mitted, that it was about Time for some one else 
to cut the Cards and deal out a Helping Hand to 
the languishing Retailer. 

The Upshot of it all was that the hard-headed 
Advertising Chief was offered a big Boost in Salary 
if he would only come back and unravel the 
Tangled Skeins. 

And as for Flavius Flivver himself, Dear Old 
Dad has bought him a Luxuriant Yacht to cruise 
around in until he comes to. The Old Man says 
it's cheaper, too! 

Moral: Ifs a wise father who knows 

when to keep the prodigal son of the 

home preserves. 



All is Not Bird that Twitters 

Wherein // recorded the tale of 

an oldish bird who was good 

to look upon but who never 

chirped an original tune 

in his life 




[83] 



ALL is not BIRD that 
TWITTERS 

A Fable about the smooth article who wasn't 

JONATHAN FRONT, Esquire, was the height 
of decorum. From the tip-top of his Bruns- 
wick-Balke-CoUender to the shined point of his 
hand-made Shoes, Jonathan was an Immaculate 
Decoction. He affected Spats, Vest Edging, a 
nonchalant Attitude, a mellow Voice and a deci- 
dedly Englishy Air that came in very handy upon 
Occasions numerous and plenty as the following 
narrative will show. 

No one could gainsay the fact that Sir Jonathan 
was a Personage of eminent extraction. He looked 
it. Whether you piped him at close Range or spied 
him at a Distance a la lorgnette, he was. always 
dressed with meticulous Care and Exactitude. 
(Ah yes, Maisie, bring in the tea tray.) 

In short, Jonathan was there with the Pomp 
alright, alright — but the Belfry? Ah, wattawoil! 
If you tapped his Top-piece for some Real Matter 
you didn't get any more Response than if you had 
been knocking at the door of the Royal Tomb in 



86 All Is Not Bird 

the Pyramid of Cheops. His only Tenant was the 
famous Firm of Mahogany, Ebony & Solid Dome. 

But, none the less, Jonathan did not let you in 
on that. Quite to the contrary, he gave one the 
Impression that he was widely read, had traveled 
much, had suffered not at all, and had acquired 
that ineffable Poise and s avoir J aire which come 
only to a Man of the World. 

Broach any Topic of Discussion and Jonathan 
would fetch out his acquiescent Smile and his in- 
evitable Nod of "Ah yes, indeed — of course, of 
course ! " Whether you were raving about a Paint- 
ing by Whistler or a new Whistling Act on the 
Orpheum didn't make much difference. He was 
quite on Intimate Terms with either or both. 

You might be talking about an Essay by Nietzsche 
or the Batting Average of the latest Baseball Phe- 
nom but you couldn't stump Mr. Jonathan. He 
was right there with the Verbal Burro and followed 
you up the Trail. Ah yes, indeed! 

And travel? To be sure, Jonathan had never 
gone in for those stupid Culinary Tours but he had 
been pretty much everywhere you mentioned. 
Hadn't he lunched with Lord Southcliff the last 



That Twitters 87 

time he was in Lunnon? Hadn't he munched over 
the Affairs of the Day with Baron Munchausen at 
his Castle on the River Zinfandel? Hadn't he 
nibbled many a bag of Pop-corn Parisienne along 
the Bois de Bologna on many a balmy summer 
awfternoon? And as for Westminster Abbey — 
gracious yes! He knew the Distinguished Gentle- 
man long before he had moved over from the East 
Side. 

By this time you should be on Nodding Terms 
with the smooth, suave Specimen in question. So, 
then, let's moosie on. 

Jonathan Front was, by Chance and Necessity, 
a Floorman in the large and imposing Establish- 
ment of Marshall, Vale & Co. His particular 
Function it was to keep an alert and omniscient 
Eye on the Horizon of his Particular Department 
and, truth to tell, Jonathan was very able in a 
monocle way. 

He had come to Marshall Vale's with the Best 
Intentions in the World and with Impeccable Cre- 
dentials from his previous Employers informing 
Mr. Whom-it-may-concern that Mr. Jonathan 
Front was a Man of Splendid Address, Gracious 




Jonathan could say, "Ah yes, sir, that's quite 
alright," in a voice that made Mrs. Panne Vel- 
vet's Soothing Syrup seem like harsh treatment 
indeed for a colicky critter 



That Twitters 89 

Manner, and Very Able in his Way. Have the 
Butcher cut all these Fatuous Adjectives away 
from the Real Meat and what do you get? You're 
right: you get T-bone! 

Jonathan had been brought up in the School 
that figured a Gracious Air and a Knowing Stare 
had it all over the Real Goods when it came to 
Ralph Waldo's famous Monologue on the Pay 
Envelope Question. 

He could say, "Ah yes, sir, that's quite 
alright," in a Voice that made Mrs. Panne Velvet's 
Soothing Syrup seem like Harsh Treatment indeed 
for a Colicky Critter. There is no doubt that in 
the olden days of Hoop-skirted Ladies and Silver- 
buckled Gallants Jonathan would have been a 
Raging Riot. But, it so happeneth that in the 
present era whereof I speak, Jonathan was about 
as essential to our economic system as Curry 
Combs in a Garage. 

The tragic part of it is that Jonathan thought 
he had the Establishment buffaloed as to his Real 
Merit. You certainly had to hand him a Croix de 
Guerre for the ISuperb Way he fussed and bustled 
around and the Suave Manner in which he dis- 



9° A I Us Not Bird 

pensed his peculiar brand of 0-Cedar Mop Diplo- 
macy. But everyone in the shop, from the Pert 
Youngster who was mascot of the team to the Big 
Twirler himself, had Jonathan's Real Record in- 
scribed on their Mental Score Cards — and don't you 
forget it! 

Nor must you suppose from this Appraisal of 
Jonathan that he had hurdled into his Forties 
without any Definite Accomplishments. Hardly 
so, hardly so! There were a number of things in 
which he was a Past Master. For example: 

When it came to keeping furiously busy and 
accomplishing nothing Jonathan was nothing less 
than a Twenty-first Century Marvel. And when 
it came to the grand old game of saying " Yessir'* 
to every Idea, idiotic or otherwise, submitted for 
his August Consideration, he was nothing less than 
a Labor Day Celebration. And as for horning in 
on the Attainments and Accomplishments of Mar- 
shall, Vale & Co. — and, more especially, his Par- 
ticular Department — Jonathan simply had all the 
other Olympic Runners washed off the Track. 

Also — and this you may already have surmised 
— when it came to the Highly Polished Art of 



That Twitters 9 ^ 

Passing the Buck, Jonathan Front, Esquire, was 
Grand Chancellor Commander of The Dramatic 
Order of Those Who Doeth Not but Passeth On. 
No Fleck on his Regalia, no Blot on his Escutcheon, 
no Black Mark on his Report Card — nay, nay, 
Therese — not if he could yelp it! 

In the very nature of things, Jonathan had every 
reason to exult over the Smooth Current of his Job 
at Marshall Vale*s. Came a day, however, when 
all was turned into Gall and Wormwood; for there 
came to him the Poignant Realization that al- 
though nearly every one else who had entered the 
Sacred Precincts of this Department had moved 
up Several Pegs, he was still taking his Daily Con- 
stitutional as Floorman. 

He remembered, too, that none of these Fellows 
had any specially Pink Ribbons tied to their 
Physical Make-up. In fact, he distinctly recalled 
Joe Martin who was positively homely. Tecumseh 
Joe they called him — and a Scrapper from the word 
Go. Yet, somehow, he had managed to scalp his 
way to the Head of his own Department. And, 
come to think of it, Tecumseh Joe had never 
flopped for every Idea propounded by the Man- 




And as for horning in on the attainments and 

accomplishments of the firm, Jonathan simply 

had all the other Olympic runners washed 

off the track 



That Twitters 93 

agement although, when he did, he was certainly 
a Fiery Enthusiast. 

And then there was Tom Lively who had never 
pulled any Blue Ribbons at the Handsome Harry 
Contests and whose Schooling had been sadly 
neglected. Fact is, Tom lacked all the Refined 
Touches and the Manicured Niceties that belong 
to a Gentleman of the Blood. And yet, in spite 
of this Appalling Handicap, Tom had Big Benned 
his way into the High-Salaried Realms Above. 

By the time this Streak of Light broke through 
the Brain-Fog that constantly hovered around 
Jonathan, he had bucked up enough Courage to 
ask the Big Boss why, whence and wherefore his 
Permanent Residence in the Stagnant Pool Below. 
The Boss had a Heart and didn't want to hurt 
Jonathan's Feelings; but Jonathan insisted on the 
Bitter Truth, no matter how much the Iodine of 
the Boss' Remarks might smart. 

So the Boss began rather irrelevantly by asking 
Jonathan if he had ever noticed that the Biggest 
Apples in this World come to the Chap who climbs 
right up after them and who doesn't give a rap if 
his Trousers do rip on the Upward Climb. 



94 All Is Not Bird 

Having reached out with this High One, the 
Boss assured Jonathan that he did not wish to 
cast any Asparagus upon the latter's Ability and 
Ambitions. At the same time, he had often won- 
dered whether Jonathan realized that, while a 
certain amount of Front is all right in a Man, 
what he has Back of his Ears counts for infinitely 
more. A Smooth Front, affirmed the Boss, was 
well and good for a Chap who aspired to a Quick- 
Lunch Reputation but was very much the Fromage 
for one who aspired to be a Real Business Man of 
Parts. You could nibble a Five-Minute Lunch 
without wising up to the Culinary Deficiencies of 
the Establishment but you couldn't wade through 
a Ten-Course Dinner without savvying up to the 
fact that the Chef was either a Wonder or a False 
Alarm. 

By the time the Boss got to the Finger Bowl 
Portion of his Analogy, Jonathan looked rather 
giddy in the Gills but the Surgeon kept right on 
with the Operation regardless of the Shock to the 
Patient. He asked Jonathan point blank as to 
whether he had ever made an Original Constructive 
Suggestion for the betterment of the Institution. 



That Twitters 95 

How had he proven himself more valuable to the 
Firm? What unusual Responsibilities had he 
shouldered? What if a Man did tackle a Thing 
and fall down — didn't Jonathan realize that a 
Man's Success is usually built on the Edifice of 
his Mistakes? 

And ah yes, indeed, when had Jonathan had 
enough Temerity to say "No!" to any Suggestion 
he didn't believe in ? Didn't he realize that People 
admired Other People who had the Courage of 
their Convictions? And, Jumping Jehosophat, if 
a Man didn't have any Convictions, why didn't 
he attend a Clearance Sale at Sing Sing or some 
other Idea Seminary and get some? 

In fine, the Boss made it quite clear and trans- 
parent to Jonathan that, so far as Putting Up a 
Front was concerned, he was nothing less than a 
Whale; but that, when it came to Initiative and 
Business Acumen, he was not only a Poor Fish 
but a Poverty-stricken Aquarium. Jonathan, how- 
ever, accepted his Fate with Codfish Calm, buckled 
on such Mental Armor as he could summon to the 
Cause, and on his downward Descent in the Store 
Jinrikisha decided that henceforth and hereafter 



9 6 The End of This Bird 

he would speak his Mind and show 'em. He would 
be there front, back and sideways — yea, even unto 
the Fourth Dimension ! 

He had no sooner hung his Head in that Frame 
of Mind when the Window Trimmer's Assistant 
approached him from afar and piped, "Say, Mr. 
Front, how about putting these Straw Hats in the 
Window — it's an awfully Warm Day for January, 
y'know?" To which Jonathan Front, Esquire — 
true to the Traditions of his Skittish Clan — replied, 
"Ah yes, indeed, of course, of course!" 

Moral: You carit tell a man by bis voice 
— nor a bird by its plumage. 



Hewers of Wood and 
Drawers of Water 

Wherein is recorded the tale of the 

folk who wanted to he Autocrats of 

the Breakfast Table without doing 

enough manual labor to work 

up an appetite 




[99] 



HEWERS of WOOD and 
DRAWERS of WATER 

A Fable about the folk who lived on cream puffs 

WHAT do you suppose was the Cheapest 
Thing in the Establishment of Putton's? 
Titles! Everyone had a sonorous Title — 
from the Important Personage who greeted you at 
the door to the Big Mogul himself. When it came 
to Gold Trimmings, Trappings and the other 
tinseled Regalia that inevitably go with the up- 
holding of Tradition and all that sort of Bunkum, 
Putton's stood Ace-high. 

And as for Caste and Class Distinction this Store 
had a Prussian Autocracy shoved off the Map. 
There was more Camouflage, more Tartar Sauce 
to the square inch than some Restaurateurs use 
on a double portion of Filet de Sole. 

To add to the mixy-mess Titles were running 
short. It got so bad that the Big Chief found 
himself in the predicament of the Railway Presi- 
dent who has to bribe his Grandniece to think up 
new names for his Pullman Cars. And so, to pacify 
these grown-up Babes in Toyland, he had the 



I02 Hewers of IVood and 

Super issue a Manual labeled something like, 
''Who's How in This Hoosgow." 

Take, for example, the Adonis-like Young Man 
in the men's furnishings, who parted his Hair in 
the middle. A dapper Young Man, right enough, 
but from the Shoulders up he was Unimproved 
Property. He and Brains were not even Step- 
brothers. Yet, if you were good enough to dub 
him a Salesman, you were in for a Rude Shock. 

Instead, the Superb Specimen in question would 
be inclined to tilt his Nasal Appendage in the Air 
after the fashion of a Monoplane taking a rise. 
He was, if you please. Fourth Assistant Furnish- 
ings Buyer. So there, Mr. Tart Aleck! 

Or suppose a Plebeian Customer had the 
Temerity to complain about poor Delivery Service. 
Think you he could expect to communicate his 
Plaint to the Department Head himself? No, 
indeedy, the Gentleman in Question was not ap- 
proachable. The Matter, if you will, would be 
referred in due order to the Third Assistant in said 
Department who would bring to bear on the Prob- 
lem all the Pressure and Perspicacity of his Nine- 
teen Tender Years. Just like that! 



Drawers of Water 103 

And if, perchance, a Knight of the Grip invaded 
the Stronghold of the Clothing Buyer, the Gentle- 
man in Waiting would be calmly informed that 
he could not expect to view the Grand Presence 
on such short notice. The modus operandi of 
Putton^s required the Second Assistant Buyer to 
give his line the Up and Down before he could hope 
even to gaze at the Furrowed Countenance of 
H. L M. the Clothing Buyer. 

And that was the way and the why of it. Go 
through the whole bloomin* Cantonment and you 
couldn't spy a Private on a bet. Everyone was 
an Officer — a Person of Rank, as it were. 

Now, it is all to the Merry Bombardment to 
have Epaulets and Service Bars and Stars, when 
these engender an esprit de corps. But in the case 
of Putton's they served, rather, to endanger 
whatever Semblance of Discipline was left. 

Do you suppose for one brief moment that the 
Assistant Buyer in the Trunks and Leather Goods 
would deign to eat his Lunch at the same Beanery 
where the Porter was wont to imbibe his Ham- 
and? Why, Reginald, the idea! 'Twould be such 
a Blight on his Family Tree. 




The Boss gave them a piece, not to say a 

healthy hunk, of his mind. He told them, to 

start offtvith, that life is not all beer 

and skittles 



Drawers of TVater 105 

One day it dawned on the Boss that while Titles 
were all right and all shimmery, they didn*t get 
the Store anywhere. The Customer wanted Ser- 
vice — he didn't care Who-in-Heligoland the Sales- 
man was. He was not especially interested in 
knowing the Sugar-coated Pedigree of the Superior 
Person who fawned at him over the Counter. 
And he was not especially concerned with the fact 
that the S. P.*s Ancestors had come over on the 
Sunflower. What he wanted was Service. 

By the time the Boss got this Thought firmly 
imbedded in his Cabeza, even the Stenog in the 
outer portal could see that his Disposition was 
ripped up the back from Crupper to Hame. But 
he was Tactician enough to realize that you can't 
revolutionize a Business overnight. 

Accordingly, he called together the be-mus- 
tached, be-manicured and be-mollycoddled Per- 
sonages in his employ. And he gave them a 
Piece — not to say a Healthy Hunk — of his Mind. 
He told them, to start off with, that Life is not all 
Beer and Skittles. And he followed this Bowery- 
esque Aphorism with the characteristic observa- 
tion that when a Man wears a Frock Coat to 



I o 6 Hewers of IVood and 

Business, chances are he has more Coat than he 
has Business. 

Among other things, the Boss wanted to know 
why such Men as Ben Franklin and Abe Lincoln 
had not raved about their Pedigrees; and why 
these Master-Men were content to sign them- 
selves ** Tour obedient servant,^ et cetera. 

After the first Hiccoughs of Astonishment had 
subsided, the Boss followed up his Ante with a 
Trundle full of Comments calculated to bring his 
Audience back to Mother Earth. He acknowl- 
edged quite frankly that it was a human frailty to 
like Pomp and Fuss and Fluster and all that. But 
there was little place for that in Modern Business. 

The Establishment of Putton's, it seems, had 
gone in for Red Robes and Brass Railings so long 
that today it was hemmed in by a Chinese Wall of 
Red Tape and Tradition. Henceforth, he said. 
Snobbishness and Uppishness were to be taboo. 
Putton's was to be made Safe for Democracy. 
Hereafter the Keynote of this Institution was to 
be ^' Pitch in and do your double-hit ^ 

As a Finishing Touch to his Discourse, the Boss 
related a little Parable about a Milk-and-Honey 



Drawers of IVater 107 

Community — a veritable Utopia that a bunch of 
Highbrows started to build in the Woods. Every- 
thing was hunky-dory. The Idea was all right, 
the Cause was worthy and the Spirit was there. 
But the Project fell flatter than the proverbial 
Hohenzollern Pancake. Why? Because every- 
one wanted to be the Architect, the Engineer, the 
Builder. Everybody was so important Nobody 
did any real Work. Hew Wood and Draw Water ? 
Not for their Aesthetic Hands ! 

And so, aflirmed the Chief Putter of Putton 's, 
as he wound up with a Swinging Drive to the 
Green, it would be necessary for the Success of 
the Store that every Employee should pitch in and 
dig away; that they should be content to be 
Hewers of Wood and Drawers of Water if the 
Business Structure they were building was to rear 
its Head to the Skies. 

Moral: Titles may be all to the mustard 
as a relishy but why make a meal of them? 



The Pot of Gold at the End 
of the Payroll 

Wherein // recorded the tale of 

the young wiseacres who looked 

with covetous eyes on the Long 

Green only to find the 

landscape a mirage 




[109] 



The POT of GOLD at the 
END of the PAYROLL 

A Fable about the prospectors who struck bottom 

EVER since this wild and woolly World began 
to wag, Men have gone forth to wrest Treas- 
ure from Lands afar when plenty of Bullion 
was bubbling under their Feet — not to say in front 
of their Noses. And ever since Men have sailed the 
Seven Seas, they have thrown Belaying Pins at their 
loyal Deck-Hands, Slow and Sure, and have cast 
Longing Eyes in the direction of those infamous 
Circes of old. Quick and Hazardous. Thus has 
it ever been and thus shall it ever be. But, instead 
of saying Amen, Selah, Fm going to say, "Hello, 
we're off!" . . . 

It so happened that Tom, Dick, Harry and 
Josephus were Deck Mates in the stately Ship of 
Business known as the Bon Ton Store of Spokattle. 
These four Young Men were the original Siamese 
Double-Twins. They roomed at the same 
Hostelry, they ate at the same Grease-Shops, 
they smoked the same Fags, they frequented the 
same Haberdasher's, they affected the same Style 



112 



The Pot of Gold at the 



of Tonsorial Art, they sang their own Songs for 
their own Edification and, like all Bachelors, were 
blissfully ignorant of the Great Divide between 
Heavenly Harmony and Devilish Discord. 

They were a Loyal Crew — were Tom, Dick, 
Harry and Josephus. It was generally admitted, 
however, that the Last Named Individual was the 
Tamest Lothario in the Bunch since he had had 
only Two Love Affairs in his Twenty-six Years of 
sageful Youth, and since he was rather set in his 
Ways and cared naught for the sprightly little 
Sprees which most Young Men deem essential for a 
Bounteous Harvest. But, aside from this slight 
Difference in Brotherly Fooling, these four Sprout- 
lings got along with as few Squabbles and as little 
Back-biting as can be expected in any City outside 
of Philadelphia. 

In the four or five Years that this Amiable 
Quartette had been working at the Bon Ton, they 
had received moderate Increases in Salary and, in 
the regular Course of Affairs commercial and 
mercenary, they could reasonably expect to work 
into Executive Positions with an adequate Hono- 
rarium when they reached this Desirable Pinnacle. 



End of the Payroll 1 1 3 

The Management of the Bon Ton did not 
believe in petting its Employees like Poodle Dogs; 
nor did it believe in trampling them under-foot. 
It never brought out the Punch Bowl when a New 
Employee arrived; and it never brought out the 
Vinegar Cruet when an Old One departed. It 
was a good, steady Store for good, steady People. 

Josephus, for his part, was content to trudge 
along on Abe Lincoln's Advice to work and study 
until the Time came for his Big Salaam. But, on 
occasion, the other three Members of the Tribe 
would see pink and swear blue and would point 
out the Impediments that stood in their Upward 
Path to More Protein and More Gravy. 

Tom would point to his Chief in the Credit 
Department, Bradley Dun by name. Brad had 
been perched on the High Stool so long that his 
Disposition had not only soured — it had weathered 
three Distinct Ages of Fermentation. According 
to Tom's version, Bradley Dun had sat on the 
Dough Bag so long that it was no wonder his 
Trousers were shiny. Mr. Dun, it seemed, had 
often lectured Tom on the Stern Necessity of lay- 
ing by a Nest-Egg for later Eggless Days. In 




They sang their own songs for their own edi- 
fication and, like all bachelors, zvere blissfully 
ignorant of the Great Divide between heav- 
enly harmony and devilish discord 



End of the Payroll 1 1 5 

fact, Mr. Dun operated on the time-tattered 
Theory that the only Dough you*ll ever have is the 
Dough you've got right now. This may sound 
hke a Parody on a Popular Song. But, to Six 
Ears of our Eight-eared Quartette, it sounded like 
a Tragedy. 

Then Dick would bridge into the Game by point- 
ing out his Chief, Mr. Clarence O'Calico, who 
bought White Goods for the Bon Ton. When it 
came to the Money Question, Clarence was tight, 
taut and terribly averse to doling out anything 
that smacked like Real Coin of the Realm. When- 
ever he let an Expensive Draft whiz by, you felt 
like heading for your Baby Grand and playing 
some funereal, heart-rending Selection from Chopin 
with the Pedal on the Fortissimo. 

After which, Harry would chime in by citing his 
Chief, Mr. Alexander Kaplush, the Plethoric 
Person in charge of Furniture and Household 
Goods. According to Harry's Diagnosis of the 
Case, he couldn't hope to lounge in Alexander's 
Davenport until the Upholstered Person in Ques- 
tion had succumbed to angina pectoris and had 
taken up his Residence in the Elysian Fields. 



1 1 6 The Pot of Gold at the 

While Josephus — who may have had more Fools- 
cap in his Pocket than on his Head — would say- 
Nothing and let the Triumvirate spout to its 
forensic Content. Every time such a Discussion 
took place, Tom, Dick and Harry would decide to 
pull up Stakes forthwith and choo-choo over to 
Deadwood where they had heard that the Pom 
Pom Store was paying Fabulous Salaries. But the 
next Morning they would show up at the Bon Ton 
as usual. So Josephus murmured something to 
himself about the Bark being worse than the Bite 
and paid scant Attention to the Intermittent 
Malarial Plans made by Tom, Dick and Harry for 
the Short Jaunt to Treasure Island. 

Came a Sunday Morning, however, when 
Josephus found his Three Worldly Brothers drink- 
ing in an alluring Advertisement in "The Daily 
Bleat. It seemed that the Pom Pom Store in 
Deadwood had some Very Desirable Openings for 
some Very Desirable Young Men but that Appli- 
cants would have to appear in person Monday 
morning at 8 o'clock sharp. That settled it! 
Why wait for Opportunity to bruise its sensitive 
Knuckles knocking at their Front Gate? Here 



End of the Payroll 1 1 7 

was a Golden Gondola that would take them over 
a Trackless Sea into the Sweet Harbor of Pros- 
perity. A vaunt, Allans and Alfalfa! — they would 
go — and they did! 

Tom, Dick and Harry jumped for the Bait and 
swallowed it Hook, Line and Sinker. While Jose- 
phus — who was only a Little Minnow in his own 
Estimation and theirs — decided he had better 
stick around in the little Puddle where he was and 
not go swimming in the Big Pond with these Big 
Fishes. 

So, on Monday, when the Super asked Josephus 
as to what had happened to his Three Ford Attach- 
ments, the Stay-at-Home sparked up quite frankly 
and said he didn't know; they had gone on some 
week-end Fishing Trip without him and he cer- 
tainly hoped they hadn't drowned or something. 

But on the following Day, there came an Exuber- 
ant Letter from Tom who acted as Tribal Heads- 
man for the Treasure-Hunting Expedition. Tom 
said they had all landed Fat Jobs with Real Money 
and how glad they were to get out of that poky Old 
Place, the Bon Ton! And what Swell Queens 
there were in the Pom Pom — oh, Boy! No fussy 



ii8 The Pot of Gold at the 

Old Maids to pester a Fellow with Hot Goose Fat 
and Red Flannel when he happened to have a Cold. 
No siree, this was the Real Class — believe him! 

And wouldn't Josephus please pack up their 
Duds and ship them to Deadwood at once? And 
wouldn't Josephus be a Good Fellow and tell the 
Boss that — er, er, oh! well, Joey would know what 
to tell the Boss. It was such a Hard Thing to 
explain by Letter — wasn't it, now, Joey, old top? 

So our Poor Dub of a Josephus performed the 
last Sad Rites in accordance with their Last Living 
Request, and was rather surprised at the way the 
Boss took it. Instead of growing purple in the 
Face and boisterous in his Language, the Boss 
merely nodded his Head in Infinite Understanding 
and smiled a Wan Little Smile for such a Big Man. 
The Boss seemed to remind Josephus of a Preacher 
he had once heard who had taken for his Text, 
"Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do." 

In the meanwhile. Old Man Tempus kept 
fugiting right along as Old Man Tempus has a 
habit of doing. Josephus kept trudging right 
along at the Bon Ton while his more adventure- 



End of the Payroll 1 1 9 

some Brothers were trekking the Perfumed Cor- 
ridors of the Pom Pom. Often of an Evening, 
when he would be studying up some new Kink in 
Merchandising, Josephus would find himself won- 
dering as to how Tom, Dick and Harry were get- 
ting on. What Fine Pals they were and what 
Great Times they must be having! Weren^t they 
right, after all? And wasn't he a Fool for staying 
in a Two-Cylinder Burg like Spokattle? He 
wondered! . . . Once Dick sent him a highly 
colored Card from a highly gilded Cafe with the 
highly original Remark that they were having a 
Swell Time and hoping he was having the Same. 
On another Occasion, Harry had sent him a Snap- 
shot showing the Whole Crew boating on Dimple 
Lake, with the scrawly Suggestion that he had 
better forsake the Quiet Precincts of Spokattle and 
come to a Real Town. That was all! 

That was all — until about a half year later, when 
Josephus received a Surreptitious Letter from 
Tom in which he remarked that he was getting 
along great but that Dick was certainly getting a 
Raw Deal. Dick had been promised a Raise that 
he didn't get and his Immediate Superior Officer 




At the Pom Pom there were no fussy old 

maids to pester a fellow with hot goose 

fat and red flannel zvhen he happened to 

have a cold 



End of the Payroll 



12 1 



was simply impossible. But Dick was a Regular 
Fellow, as Joey knew, and he was taking his 
Medicine without a Word of Whimper. At the 
same time, if Joey could possibly find a Berth for 
Dick in the good old Bon Ton, Tom was sure Dick 
would grab it. 

Josephus — innocent Soul that he was — was quite 
nonplussed. He didn't know how to engineer such 
a Ticklish Deal so he thought he*d better wait a 
few days to dope up a Plan of Attack on the Boss. 
But, he didn't have to wait very long before he got 
a Letter from Dick saying he was scooting along in 
Fine Style but it was a Shame the way the Pom 
Pom was treating Harry. It seemed that Harry 
had been promised the Assistant Buyership of his 
Department but, when the Time came, the Buyer 
had imported his own Nephew for the Purpose. 
Of course, Harry hadn't mooshied a Word about 
it and Harry would never forgive Dick for writing 
Joey about it. Still and all, if Joey could get 
Harry's Old Job back again, it would certainly be 
a Great Thing for the Kid. 

By this time Josephus was beginning to see the 
Milk in the Cocoanut. So, he was hardly surprised 



122 



The Pot of Gold at the 



in the next few days to get another stealthy Letter 
— this time from no less a person than Harry. 
This benighted Individual assured Josephus that 
he was certainly making Great Progress but that 
it was a Crime the way Tom was being abused. 
Tom had started to work for the Pom Pom at the 
same Salary he had been receiving at the Bon Ton; 
but he was promised a Husky Bonus in six months. 
The h.b. was not forthcoming, however, because 
Mr. Pom Pom had regretfully assured Tom that 
Business had slumped somehow or other and that 
undoubtedly Things would perk up pretty soon 
and Tom would pick up his Share of the Spoils. 

Harry's Letter continued to narrate the Fact 
that, when Tom had suddenly contracted a bad 
case of Influenza and had been taken to the Hos- 
pital, no one at the Pom Pom had manifested any 
Deep Concern. And, furthermore, that the grim- 
visaged Cashier at Pom Pom's had promptly 
deducted Tom's Pay for the time being, on the 
Charitable Principle that Business is Business. 

At any rate, Tom was so sick he couldn't see 
straight; and his Bank Account was in a State of 
Imminent Collapse. So, although Harry hadn't 



End of the Payroll 1 2 3 

consulted Tom on the subject, he was right certain 
that Tom would take his Old Job at the Bon Ton, 
if it could possibly be arranged. 

Josephus didn't wait for any more Signals of 
Distress but promptly hoisted the three guileful 
Letters in front of the Boss. He figured that if he 
had to spill the Beans he might as well let the Boss 
count 'em. So the Boss digested the Mealy Meal 
and topped it off with a Hearty Laugh; while 
Josephus didn't know whether to be polite and 
join in, or be serious and act concerned. 

When the Laughing Act was over, the Boss 
assured Josephus that, under the circumstances, 
it would hardly be Good Policy for him to take the 
Miscreants back. But this much he didn't mind 
telling him : that Josephus had been slated to head 
a New Department and that it was up to said Jose- 
phus to pick his own Help. If Josephus was foolish 
enough to take back his Three Erring Brothers? 
that was no Special Tribulation of the Boss. It 
was Josephus' own Wedding and he could have his 
own Guests. Or, to change from Mendelssohn to 
something less mellifluous, it was Joey's own 
Funeral and he could choose his own Pall-Bearers. 



1 2 4 The End of the Pot of Gold 

Joey, however, was in too hilarious a Mood to 
worry about Funeral Dirges so he promptly sent 
out a Clarion Call a la Western Union asking the 
far-flung Members of his Tribe to come back home 
for the Bon Ton Reunion. When they got the 
Gladsome Tidings, Tom, Dick and Harry lifted 
their Right Hands solemnly in a sort of T. E. 
Powers Attitude, and then, as if to the Accompani- 
ment of doleful Viols and sorrowing Bagpipes, 
chanted that famous Refrain, "Never Again!" 

And yet, if you talk to Tom, Dick and Harry, 
theyll tell you that Josephus is a Prince of a Fel- 
low but an Awful Simp. Because he never goes 
fishing outside the City Limits and he swallows 
Everything you tell him — Hook, Line and Sinker. 

Moral: The sheep jump over the fence 
because the grass looks greener. 



The Boss Who Listened 
to Treason 

Wherein // recorded the tale 

of a knowing chieftain who 

fought fire with fire and put 

out the blaze in 

jig time 




[127] 



The BOSS who LISTENED 
to TREASON 

A Fable about the mutiny that fell mute 

THEY may babble all they like about the 
Tower of Babel and they may rave all they 
please about the Noise-Factory in the Pro- 
vince of Bedlam; but for Sheer Din and Riotous 
Racket it would be hard to beat the Outer Offices of 
the Gew-Gaw Publishing Company. For, here 
was the Fountain Head whence flowed the Edi- 
torial Elixir dispensed to Patient Readers the 
nation over. 

Every morning, after the Masculine Standbys of 
the Office had duly hung up their Society Brands, 
and after the Co-eds had duly donned Paper Cuffs, 
the Anvil Chorus would tune up with a rhapsodic 
little Litany about the Boss. It so happened that 
the Boss had been a Night Gawk all his Life and 
was accustomed to doing m.ost of his Work during 
the Evening; so that he was in the Habit of breez- 
ing into the Office somewhere around ten o'clock 
each day. 

No one but the Night Watchman knew when the 



I30 The Boss Who 

Boss left each night, but that didn't create much 
of a Continental with the Office Staff. For, when- 
ever the Boss glided past in the morning on his way 
to his Private Cubby-hole, that was the Signal for 
the Choir to join in a brief but sybilant Psalm en- 
titled P. S. — meaning pretty soft, pretty slick, 
pretty sleepy, powdered stuff. 

Although the Office Crew was supposed to be 
under the direct Wing of Henry Pulp Wagmore, 
the kindly-kindled Office Manager, it would be 
much more proper to say that the Clerical Contin- 
gent was under the Spell of Madame Grundy. For, 
when it came to Batting Averages in the Gossip 
League, this Blabbing Bunch had the Pennant 
cornered six jumps from the Polo Grounds. 

The Boss, for his part, was so immersed in 
trundling out his Daily Quota of Editorial Brick 
that he paid scant attention to the Verbal Trip- 
Hammer Exercise that went on outside. He 
knew that his Aides were only human and that the 
Human Cuss isn't happy unless he can exercise his 
normal Lingual Function. But he was hardly 
prepared for the Flank Attack that greeted his 
Ears one fine morning when he had been foolish 



Listened to Treason 1 3 1 

enough to work all night and fall asleep at his 
Manuscript-littered Desk. 

He was awakened by the peculiar Cacophany of 
Sound that is inseparably identified with the 
Process of harnessing up for the Day's Work. 
There was the Clatter of Feet in the direction of 
the Cloak Room, the Stray Wisps of Good Morn- 
ing Chatter, the Heavy Rumblings of a Giant Safe 
rudely disturbed from its Night's Slumber, the 
Opening of Desks, the Banging of Drawers, the 
Trial Sprints of Typewriter Carriages, the Swish- 
Swish of emphatic Dust Cloths, and the chaotic 
Medley of Sounds that constitute the Morning 
Glory Ode to the God of Business. 

Had anyone suspected for the brief Flutter of a 
Moment that the Boss was securely if sleepily 
ensconced in his Sacred Cubby-hole, the Conver- 
sation would have taken on an entirely Difl^erent 
Tack if, indeed, it had been tacky at all. And 
had anyone been familiar enough with Aeronautics 
to realize that Lies as well as Flies can float in 
over the Transom, the Gew-Gaw Stock on the 
Gossip Exchange would have immediately dropped 
below par. 



132 TheBossTVho 

At any rate, the Verbal Proceedings of the Day 
were opened up by Miss Amy Pitman, personal 
Stenographer to the Boss. Miss Pitman an- 
nounced, apropos of nothing, that she had seen a 
Man in the Movies the night before who reminded 
her so much of the Boss. He was tall and dark 
and distinguished-looking and he had Long Eye- 
lashes an' everything. But before Miss Pitman 
could finish her Ecstatic Description, she was in- 
terrupted by Miss Bara Cuda who uncoiled some 
Choice Reptiles from her Websterian Wiggle with- 
out further frou-frou. By the time she got through 
with her Lye and Caustic, everyone knew that she 
had seen the same Movie but she had not seen the 
Slightest Resemblance between the Handsome 
Leading Man and her Bass Buffo of a Boss. 

Whereupon Jack Jolson, the original Poohbah of 
the White Lights, muttered something like " Buck- 
ets of Mush !" and naively inquired whether anyone 
realized what a terrible Ear for Music the Boss had. 
In fact, the Boss had remarked to Jack on more 
than one Occasion that the Average Brand of 
Music tried out on the Vocal Steinways of the 
American Public was a Riot of Rot; and that there 



Listened to Treason 133 

was more genuine Swing and Lilt to the Mother 
Goose Nursery Rhymes than there was to the 
Sextettes from Louisiana dished up in Tin Pan 
Alley. 

At this juncture, Mr. Horace Greeley Conklin, 
an Assistant Editor of the Gew-Gaw Magazine, 
chirped in with the bland Comment that the Boss' 
Ignorance on Literary Matters was simply appall- 
ing. The Boss had freely confessed to him that 
he would die just as happily if he hadn't read 
Rabindranath Tagore, and that he found more 
Solace in wading through a Gothamy Tale by O. 
Henry. 

Whereat Mr. Edgar Allen Browning, in charge 
of the Poets* Corner, stepped into the versified 
Conversation with the Lament that the Boss 
knew absolutely nothing about what constituted 
Good Poetry. The Boss, it seemed, was of the 
Opinion that the Bubble Teaser at the Corner 
Drug Store could mix a Holstein Highball with 
more Poetic Feeling than some of these Alleged 
Poets could mix a simple Quatrain about the Moon, 
the Stars, and the Girl Who Sold Sea Shells at the 
Seashore. 




The bubble teaser at the corner drug store 
could mix aHolsteitiHighballwithmorepoetic 
feeling than some of these alleged poets could 
mix a simple quatrain about the Moon, the 
Stars, and the Girl Who Sold Sea Shells 
at the Seashore 



Listened to Treason 135 

Following which, Mr. Addison Burke Quillby, 
the Sage of the Book Review Department, looked 
up from his Lore long enough to remark that the 
Boss was a very narrow-gauged and practical- 
minded Individual. On one Occasion, he had told 
Quillby that what the People wanted was the 
Philosophy of Plato in the Language of the Motor- 
man. On another Occasion he had assured the 
same shocked Editor that a Subject like Meta- 
physics was, for the average person, a Waste of 
Time; and that, so far as he was concerned, the 
Point of Interrogation could turn a Somersault 
and call it a Day. 

Not to be outdone by this Avalanche of Calci- 
mine Comment, Mr. Windsor Camelbrush, the 
Assistant Art Editor, daubed into the Landscape 
with the China-white Remark that the Boss, was 
an Absolute Blank when it came to appreciating 
Modern Art. Somehow or other, the Boss couldn't 
quite see this Voguish Stuff that made a Man look 
as if he had spent a Sleepless Night pressing his 
Trousers under the Family Ostermoor and then 
had spent a Fretful Day worrying over the Bag 
in his Knees, the Sag in his Abdominal Area and 



136 The Boss VTho 

the Crease in his Lumbar Region. Nor could he 
quite see the Big Idea in making Women look like 
Denizens of the Rouge Monde where the Lip Stick 
Orchestra dispensed its Chin Music to the Habitues 
of Rainbow Lane and Peacock Alley. It was clear 
to see that the Boss was helplessly old-fashioned 
in his Ideas. 

At this stage of the proceedings, Mike O'Leary 
— the erudite Office Boy who had been tussling 
with Irritable Mail Bags throughout this Gab-fest 
— hurled himself into the Conversational Mael- 
strom by telling them to cut the Gaff and get down 
to Business and lay off of the Boss. For, the Boss 
was the only Regular Guy in the Place, no matter 
what these Gew-Gaws said about him, and he liked 
the Boss and the Boss liked him — and that was all 
there was to it! Furthermore, the Boss was a 
great Baseball Fan and an Office Boy could attend 
the Obsequies of Twenty Grandmothers in one 
Season, so far as this Boss went. And, if they 
wanted to know the Real Truth, the Boss had 
more Good Nature to the Clock Tick than they 
had to the Calendar Year — and some more Spirited 
Stuff pitched in the same Boyish Key. 



Listened to Treason ^37 

Mike's Flow of Enthusiasm was cut short, how- 
ever, by Miss Corona Remington who told him 
he was too young to talk to his Elders and that the 
Best Thing he could do right then was to come over 
and fix her Typewriter Ribbon. Because she had 
spent Two Hours in the Parlor last night with her 
Nail Buffer and she didn't propose to soil her 
Immaculate Fingers on such Sordid Things. 

Whereupon Mr. Oliver Underwood, the Chief 
Assistant Editor of the Gew-Gaw Magazine, who 
had been too busy suppressing the Bulge in his 
Shirt Front to take an Active Part in the Conver- 
sation, steeped himself in Baboonish Brilliancy 
and stepped into the Breach. He assured his 
Audience that, regardless of what a fresh Office 
Boy might say, the Milk of Human Kindness dis- 
pensed by the Boss smacked strongly of the Can. 

As this Astute Young Man warmed up to his 
Subject, he narrated a Story that would have 
drawn a Crowd even in the Streets of Bagdad and 
Damascus. The trouble was, according to this 
Modest Weasel, that the Boss wouldn't Hsten to 
Reason. Very few people appreciated that Oliver 
Underwood was the real Brain-Factory of the Out- 



138 The Boss JVho 

fit; and, to be quite frank about it, Mr. Oliver 
Underwood couldn't see how the Gew-Gaw Maga- 
zine could possibly get along without Mr. Oliver 
Underwood — and Mr. Oliver Underwood wished 
to assure everyone present of this Weighty Fact. 

Then, as if to add Fuel to the ever-lambent 
Flame of Controversy, Ollie added that he knew 
so much about the Business that the Boss wouldn't 
dare fire him. And if, by some Cataclysm of Fate, 
this Purgatorial Event ever did happen, Ollie 
could get a Big Job on the Jim-Crack Magazine 
faster than you could flip Jack Robinson. So 
there! — that's where Oliver Underwood stood in 
the Good Graces of this Inky World. 

Oliver's Career would have been cut short then 
and there had not the Boss — who had been drink- 
ing it all in by the Spoonful — restrained an Im- 
pulse to press the Buzzer and set the Buzzards 
flying over Ollie 's Head. But, just as he was 
about to reveal to his Performers that he had wit- 
nessed their Undressed Rehearsal from the Wings, 
an Idea came full panoplied from the Sky and 
smote him Hip and Thigh. Yes, he would! — by 
the Great Tin Horn of Horatius — he would fight 



Listened to Treason 1 3 9 

Fire with Fire! He would prove to this Warrish 
Tribe of his that he was Every Inch a Ruler! 

Accordingly, this Wise Man of the East let him- 
self out of his Sanctum by the Hall Door, slipped 
downstairs for his Morning Potion of Java and, 
about fifteen minutes later, breezed into the Outer 
Office and glided past to his Little Layette as if 
nothing had happened to mar the Serenity of his 
Chastened Life. 

No sooner had the Boss swung into the Saddle 
of his Swivel-Chair than he buzzed for Sir Oliver 
Underwood and neatly administered the Guillo- 
tine Treatment without even reaching for the 
Chloroform. The Boss made it clear to the 
Astounded Victim that he was afraid the Gew- 
Gaw Magazine wasn't big enough for him and 
that he had better seek a Wider Berth. In fact, 
the Boss had come to the Conclusion that Oliver 
had too much Brains for One Man and he ought 
to incorporate for his Own Best Interests. 

When Oliver remonstrated that he was quite 
willing to stay on with the Gew-Gaw Magazine, 
even if it did cramp his Style, the Boss merely 
made a Bicycle Face and allowed the Remark to 




As he gyrated from Socrates to Samoa their 

eyes grew round with wonder. In the parlance 

of the poet laureate of Broadway, the boss 

simply knocked 'em dead 



Listened to Treason 1 4 1 

skid off his Front Tire. And when Oliver came 
down off his Perch and whined that Jobs were 
scarce and he didn 't know where he could get one, 
the Boss tried to smooth the Ruffled Pillows by- 
observing that when a Man has made his Bed 
there is only one Hotel to stop at. 

By the time Oliver came to, he had more 
Bruises than the Best Man at a Polish Wedding. 
But the Boss couldn^t stop to administer First Aid 
as he had a Major Operation looming up ahead. 
So, summoning his well-preserved Office Manager, 
Mr. Henry Pulp Wagmore, he asked that all the 
Folk in the Outer Office assemble in his Lair, with 
the exception of Mike, the Office Boy, who was to 
keep watch outside while the Seance took place. 

Henry waddled outside with the Foreboding 
that all was not quiet along the Potomac and, 
without further ado, huddled the Galley Slaves 
into the Pilot's Office. The Latter Individual 
opened the Nautical Proceedings by observing 
that Mr. Oliver Underwood, his valued Assistant 
Editor, had just tendered his Resignation for 
Reasons which neither the Boss nor Mr. Under- 
wood was privileged to disclose at the Moment. 



1 4 2 The Boss Who 

At this Remark a Shudder went through the 
Assembled Congregation because they didn't quite 
like the Tone the Sky-Pilot took. They weren't 
exactly nervous — they merely shook from Cellar 
to Cornice. And as for Miss Bara Cuda, she felt 
about as dizzy as a Globe-trotting Schoolmarm 
perched atop the Leaning Tower of Pisa. 

Noting these slight Symptoms of Apprehension, 
and nothing loath, the Boss began doling out his 
Distilled Wisdom in large, allopathic Doses. It 
had suddenly dawned on him that he was neglect- 
ing a Serious Duty in letting his Aides struggle 
along without his help; and, just to show that his 
Cardiac Department was not misplaced, he was 
willing to come down every morning at eight- 
thirty to help his Scholars along with their Personal 
Education. Although this was half an hour earHer 
than the Ordained Hour for Opening, they could 
see it was for their own Benefit and not for his. 

As a Tentative Curriculum, he suggested a 
Short Course that ran the gamut from Archimedes 
to Zola. He touched lightly on the importance of 
Sanscrit in the daily lives of people; and he urged 
them to nip off some Greek Roots, if they could 



Listened to Treason 143 

possibly find time. He discoursed learnedly on 
the great Games fellows like Euclid and Copernicus 
used to play — and said they would find them much 
more entertaining than the Childish Antics of 
Mugsie McGraw and Tyrus Cobb. By no means 
did they want to pass up the Delicacies prepared 
by Benvenuto Cellini and, if they grew tired of 
that, they might drop in at Mme. de Stael's for an 
evening. 

In the parlance of the Poet Laureate of Broad- 
way, the Boss simply knocked 'em dead. As he 
gyrated between Socrates and Samoa, their Eyes 
grew round with Wonder. Was this the same 
Boss who had told them to veer away from this 
High-Brow Chatter and get down to Primer StuflF? 
Impossible! But there he was winging along Hke 
a Flail in Full Swing! 

During the Course of his Discourse, the Boss 
made rather Pointed Reference to the Sword of 
Damocles, tapering it with the Suggestion that 
whenever they felt in a belligerent Mood, they 
would find nothing more enjoyable than the Story 
of the French Revolution -with its Guillotine Per- 
formances, matinee and evening. 



144 The Boss TVho 

Without stopping even to adjust his Rims, the 
Boss kept burning up the Track in a Manner that 
would have turned Barney Oldfield saffron with 
Envy. On one Lap he picked up Pythagoras, 
honked a Graveled Greeting to Demosthenes, 
waved a cheery Hello to Epictetus and doffed his 
Hat in friendly obeisance to Confucius, Buddha 
and Brahma. By the time he got back to Aris- 
totle and Marcus Aurelius he was just picking up 
his Second Wind. 

The Boss didn't care especially whether he was 
exceeding the Syllable Limit or not. So, suppres- 
sing an Inward Chuckle, he piloted his Verbal 
Jitney from Hobohemia to the Hang-out of 
Hottentots. His Gas kept bubbling all the way 
from Charlemagne to Attila to Jenghis Khan with 
occasional Stop-offs at such easy Places as Flaubert, 
Euripides, Keats and Shelley. 

He emphasized the Importance of cultivating 
such Club-Comrades as Don Juan and Don 
Quixote and was on the point of delving into the 
Rhythmic Realms of Grieg and Massenet when 
he noticed that his Audience was gasping for 
Breath and going down for the Third Time in his 



Listened to Treason 145 

Sea of Words. Whereupon he weighed Anchor 
and told them he would expect Personal Reports 
of Progress at eight-thirty each morning. 

And to this Day, no one knows how the Boss 
came to swallow Dr. Eliot's Five-Foot Shelf in one 
Gulp; no one knows why Oliver Underwood was 
suddenly goofed off the Gew-Gaw Horizon; no one 
realizes how spiteful an Innocent Little Thing like 
an Open Transom can be; and no one can figure out 
how Mike OTeary, that fresh Office Boy, can 
afford to sprout a New Suit and a Season Ticket 
to the Ball Grounds when everyone knows his 
Widowed Mother takes in Washing to make Ends 
meet. 

Moral; The quickest way to quell a riot 
is to start one yourself , 



All Fuzz and a Yard Wide 

Wherein // recorded the tale 

of a man who was a glutton 

for work^ but whose eyes 

were larger than his 

stomach 




47] 



ALL FUZZ 
^;?y^ YARD WIDE 

A Fable about the do-it-all who did nothing 

WHETHER or not we believe in the Flub- 
dub of the Palmist or the Whimsies of the 
Weather Vane, it is only seasonable to 
assume that Jupiter Pluv was editing the Almanac 
when Tobias Grim wood shot over the Rapids into 
this Vale of Tears. For, when the time came for 
the Roll-call of Birthmarks, there were found 
among those present a Foreboding Brow, a Rainy 
Sunday Complexion and a Howling Dervish of a 
Disposition. 

Still, just to show you that there is such a thing 
as a Happy Ending even at the Beginning, I will 
throw in the Clutch long enough to remark that 
Tobias grew up to be a Man of Parts — of so many 
Parts, in fact, that his Innards resembled the 
Operating Department of a Swiss Verithin Watch. 
Even as a Lad in School, Toby exhibited a pro- 
nounced Tendency to take all the Parts in the Play 
for himself. Not that he "wanted to cop all the 
Spotlight — not that he begrudged others a Speak- 



J5Q All Fuzz and 

ing Part or two — but wholly and solely because he 
wanted to do Everything himself. 

Just about the time Toby emerged into the Sap- 
ling Class, he heard a bright Sunday School Spruce 
remark that Success is like an Orphan Asylum in 
that it is made up of a Lot of Little Things. And, 
all through Life, he religiously adhered to that 
Precept. 

From an anatomical Point of View, Toby was as 
tall as a Telephone Pole and about as corpulent as 
a Match. While this may have been due to the 
fact that his Infantile Diet had consisted largely 
of Lemon Juice and Lime Water, it is much more 
probable that he had acquired his Vinegary Tem- 
perament by a Process of Personal Inhalation. 

In his Boyhood Days his Mother was wont to 
ask what was eating him; and in his Benedic- 
tine Days, alas, his Wife picked up the same 
unsweet Refrain and sang it every Breakfast Morn 
— providing her hectic Hubby took time enough 
to wade into the Solid Sustenance and Liquid 
Washdown set forth for the Delectation of his 
Gastric Juices. 

In short, Tobias Grimwood was the Original 



a Yard Ti^ide 1 5 1 

Irritable Cuss — in the large family size. He had 
gone in for the Long Face and the Perennial Frown 
so long that not even an Open-minded Camera 
would dare to shutter at the Thought. But, aside 
from the Fact that he had severed his Jocular 
Vein and had forgotten how to laugh; and aside 
from the innocent Avowal that he wore both Sus- 
penders and Belt to show his Shaky Faith in 
Trouserkind; and aside from the Reputation he 
had achieved as a dyed-in-the-wool and mellowed- 
in-wood Pessimist, Toby wasn*t such a bad sort at 
that. 

Like many of us who blunder into a blustering 
Storm with our Cravenettes turned inside out, 
Tobias meant well. Fact is, he meant entirely too 
well. His idea of Maximum Efficiency was to have 
Everything in the Shop percolate through his 
Nervous Fingers. He was in the habit of lamenting 
that Good Help was as scarce as Hen-teeth when 
he had all the available h. t. in town cooped up in 
his own Roost. 

By some queer quirk of The Powers That Be Up- 
stairs, the fussy, finicky Bosses seem to garner the 
best Help. Why this is so is something the sad 



1 5 2 All Fuzz and 

Chronicler of these lines does not profess to know. 
The fact remains, howsomever, that Tobias Grim- 
wood had competent aides de camp who could 
handle things from Soup to Hazel without even a 
Ripple of Ketchup on the Table-cloth. But with 
Tobias, all this went for nixie-nix nux vomica. For, 
how could they hope to do Things the way he 
wanted? 

For instance — there was William Abel, his 
Right-hand Man, who could swing a Hefty Left, 
too, if the need arose. Even a Lampless Lizzie 
. could see that William was an able Fellow. But 
that was just the trouble, according to his Appre- 
ciative Employer, Mr. Grimwood. 

"That Fellow is too bloomin* competent," Toby 
would moan. "Have to watch these cock-sure 
Fellas. Too self-reliant — ^think they can't make 
Mistakes — uh! Get you in deep Ditch Water if 
you're not keerful." 

And then there was Polly Anna Perkins who was 
a decidedly capable Young Matron. But Tobias 
didn't especially relish this Young Lady of Affairs 
because she pawed over him too much — made him 
nervous. According to this genial Gentleman's 



a Yard Wide '53 

Survey of the Feminine Situation, Polly had a 
Mean Shoulder and her Feet were too big. As this 
is rather indefinite, I should extend this by saying 
that she had Feet like Polly the Pie Girl in Jerry's 
One Arm Lunch. 

But a Lady's Pedal Reach-outs -are not neces- 
sarily indicative of her Mental Scope. Polly had 
a perfectly Good Head on her Shoulders (which 
weren't a bit mean, if you want to know the Shapely 
Truth) and she was perfectly willing to put that 
Head to use for the good of Toby. But a lass and a 
lack — nothing doing! 

Tobias would summon his Aides of a Morning, 
outline the Routine of the Day and then, after 
Hours, would preen over their Desks to see if 
everything was hunky-dory. It wasn't, he told the 
still small Voice of Conscience, that he didn't trust 
them — he just wanted to make sure. Of course, 
his Dinner at home would get cold and his Frau 
would get poutish, but, \{he didn't look out for all 
these Little Things — Goodnight, Montessori! — 
who would ? 

On those Rare Occasions when some one did pull 
a Boner, Tobias would hail the Quivering Culprit 




Tobias Grimwood tvent in for the long face 
and the perennial frown. He had severed his 
jocular vein and had forgotten how to laugh 



a Yard Wide i55 

before him and work himself into a Violent Lather. 
The Perspiration would stand out on his Forehead 
like the Excess Moisture on a Slab of new-mown 
Neapolitan Ice Cream. And he would call on the 
High Gods to witness the Waste, the Profligacy 
and the Sheer Stupidity of the Present Day and 
Age. Only, my dear Vivian, his Language on such 
Occasions wasn't quite so velvetish. 

Then he would jounce himself Home, all tuckered 
out, and about as enticing to the Eye as a Sick 
Cucumber in the Sun. No matter how tempting 
the Viands placed before him — no matter how 
much his Helpmeet had stewed and slaved to 
cajole his capricious Appetite — Tobias would 
sniffle in disdain. He would absorb his Soup like a 
Wild Bee drains a Rose, and would clean up the 
Dinner Sweepstakes in record time, winding up 
with a Quick Hurdle of the Dessert Barrier. 

And if the Wife, in an Angelic Effort to chirk 
him up, would suggest a Show or a Show-up Visit 
to some gracious Non-Relatives, Tobias would get 
on the Stump and begin to rail all over again. 
What — go out this evening — the way he felt? 
Couldn't she see he was dying on his Feet ? Couldn't 



1 5 6 All Fuzz and 

she see he was worn to a Frazzle and that he had 
gone through a grilling Grind from early Morn to 
Eventide? What was the Matter with the Present 
Generation of Wives, anyway ? All they thought 
about was Clothes and Entertainment! Suffering 
Corntoads, what a selfish and inconsiderate World 
this was! 

As Toby put it, it was a Tale that would bring 
Tears to the Eyes of a Snow Man — let alone the 
loving Wife of his heaving Bosom. And so, of 
course, the Good Wife would try and comfort and 
caress the Poor Tired Grizzly. She would fetch out 
the famous Prescription of Slippers, Pipe and 
Newspaper — warranted to soothe all Ruffled 
Bears — and resign herself to another Evening of 
stifling Boredom. 

By the time Toby hit the Hay every night he 
would look about as cheerful as the Chief Mourner 
at an Old-fashioned Wake who announces that "All 
Friends may now pass to the right of the Casket — 
Perfesser, Hearts and Flowers.'* 

Toby's pet method of wooing the much-wooed 
Morpheus was to pillow his aching Head in a pair 
of palsied Hands and count Sheep. Yea, verily. 



a Yard Wide i57 

the Black Sheep of his Fold. He would wonder, for 
example, whether the Night Watchman was doing 
the Airedale Act at the Store or whether he was 
holding spirited Converse with the Ex-Bar-Keep 
who presided over the Night Hawk Lunch Room 
'round the corner. 

He would allay his Troubled Mind with the 
Pleasant Thought that on the Morrow he would 
throw his Paper Weight at the Office Boy for 
leaving the Transom and the Window open at the 
same time. And then, on the succeeding Night, 
after he had duly established a new Record in 
Abdominal Marksmanship, he would decide that 
he had better raise the Kid's Pay lest the Father 
of said Youngling make him pay heavily for his 
Target Practice. 

And if, perchance, the Fire Engines went clang- 
ing down the Street like Demons of the Night, 
Toby would immediately jump to the Nightgown 
Conclusion that it was the Paint Store next door 
and why in blazes were Paint Shops allowed to 
smudge the Earth? 

And that was the endless Way of it. If it were 
not One Thing to worry about it was Another. 



^58 All Fuzz and 

Usually it was Both. Small wonder, then, that 
Toby awoke each Morning refreshed, exuberant 
and with all his Spirits hitting on high — mebbe! 
Small wonder that, one Day, his Solicitous Wife — 
with the eternal Intuition ingrained in her Tribe — 
saw the 111 Winds whirling around Toby's Head 
and decided that she had better get a Doctor and 
get him quick. For, this couldn't last long — nor 
Toby, either! 

Mr. Grimwood, however, could not quite see the 
Necessity of all the Thumping and Thawing he 
received at the hands of the owlish Medico. He 
admitted he felt a little out of sorts but that was 
all. The Disciple of Hippocrates not only agreed 
with the Patient but assured him that unless he 
went away for a Good, Long Rest, said Good, Long 
Rest would come to Toby entirely of its own 
Accord and without any Effort on his part at all. 

In fine, the beardless Bard made it painfully 
plain to Toby that he was running along on a High 
Tension Track with quite a few Cylinders missing 
and that, unless he slowed up, he would whiz past 
the Judge's Stand faster than he knew. 

Toby listened to the Dope Sheet with all the 



a Yard TVide i59 

respectful Attention that one must accord an 
Expensive Specialist. But, in the same inward 
Breath, he was telling the Doctor to go to Grass 
or some other Downy Place known for its Comforts 
warm. 

The Doctor's Verdict was, so to salve, the Fly in 
the Unguent. Toby found himself in the Grip of 
a great, gooey Gob of Gloom. A Blizzard of Bitter- 
ness raged in his Soul. After all his Work and 
Worry and Fret and Sweat — where was he? Was 
there no Balm in Gilead? 

No — but there was at Los Golfos — whither his 
Wife bade him hie himself and hie fast. But Toby 
remonstrated that it would cost a Whale of Kale; 
and besides, didn't she realize that the Business 
would go to Rack and Ruin if he were not on the 
Job all the time? 

Friend Wife, however, assured her Ailing Hus- 
band that while the Month's Trip might cost a 
Wad of Wampum it wasn't nearly as expensive as 
the latest Styles in Wooden Kimonos. And, as for 
the Business, she would keep her Proprietary Eye 
peeled on the Store during his Absence. 

Finally, after considerable Gnashing of Teeth 




Thus propped up on the cushions of human 

faith, our unhappy invalid reached Los Golfos 

tvhere he gave himself over to the delightful 

pursuit of chasing pills every morning 

and swallowing them every night 



a Yard Wide i6i 

and Donning of Sackcloth, Toby was convoyed 
to the Train — his Affectionate Spouse on one side, 
assuring him that she would send him a detailed 
Report by Wire each day — and his Attending 
Physician on the other side, assuring him that the 
Only Way he could hope to Pullman through Life 
was to keep a Stiff Upper all the Way. 

Thus propped up on the Cushions of Human 
Faith, our Unhappy Invalid reached Los Golfos 
where he gave himself over to the Delightful Pur- 
suit of chasing Pills every morning and swallowing 
them every night. 

Hardly had Toby's Train wound its Serpentine 
Trail out of the City when his Better and Gentler 
Half summoned William Abel and Polly Anna 
Perkins — who were shelved a little while back, as 
you may remember — and slipped them the Big 
Absent Word. 

William, who was an ambidextrous Person, 
leaped to the High Vault with both Hands, both 
Feet and an omnivorous Desire to show the Boss 
what he could do unfettered and unrestrained. 
While Polly freshened up like a Wilted Geranium 
in Water and vowed that here would be One Place 



1 62 All Fuzz and 

where the Mice wouldnt play while the Cat was 
away. Mrs. Toby — wise woman that she was — 
disregarded the unintentional Feline Thrust and 
told them to go to it! 

But in the meanwhile, as Jimmy Swinnerton 
used to say, Toby grew fussy and fidgety and 
stiff with fear. Despite the cheerful Tenor of 
his Wife's Daily Communiques, he just knew that 
the Business was going to the Bow-wows. How 
could Things go right when he — Tobias Grimwood 
— wasn't there to steer the Ship of State? 

Yes — happy thought ! — he would return at once, 
without even troubling to tell Friend Wife about 
it. He only prayed that he would get back in time 
to salvage something from the Wreck and piece 
the Shreds together. 

Accordingly, Toby returned to his Native Heath 
and, in a moment of Gum-shoe Deviltry, instructed 
the Cabby to whirl him past the Store so he could 
get a quick Look at the shambling Ruins. What a 
Sight it would be, groaned Toby! The Windows 
would be unwashed and unashamed, the Girls 
in the Store would be chewing Gum and reading 
Bobby Chambers, the Men would be lolling on Coun- 



a Yard Wide 163 

ters and swapping Stories, and the Sheriff would be 
hanging around the corner like Peck's Bad Boy. 

At this juncture, the Cab skidded right in front 
of Toby's Establishment and lo and behold! — the 
Radiant Changes that had been wrought! The 
Clerks were all busy and Everything was ship-shop. 
Customers were streaming in with bright, expec- 
tant Faces and streaming out with healthy-looking 
Purchases. And far from the drab and sorry Spec- 
tacle he had envisioned, the Store was as en- 
trancing as a Gem from Araby. It was quite the 
Brightest Thing in Town — it had more Verve and 
Sparkle than any of them. In fact, it stood out like 
a Pink Shirt at a Ministers' Conference! 

After Toby had drunk in the Scene to the Full- 
ness of his Galloping Heart, he stole Home quietly, 
let himself in by the Back Door so as not to rouse 
Suspicion and, ascending to his Lair upstairs, sank 
down into a Yawning Chair to chew the Cud of 
Reflection. What a Fool he had been to think that 
he was absolutely indispensable — that he had to 
watch over every Brood of Chicks that emanated 
from his Hatchery! What an Idiot he had been to 
wear himself out on a lot of Petty Details that 



1^4 All Fuzz and a Yard Wide 

other Folk could do heaps better than he! Holy 
Hatteras! — he was so glad and mad at the same 
time that he didn't know whether to throw his 
Hat in the Air or to throw Himself out of the 
Window. 

Toby was hovering on the Brink of a Rash De- 
cision when his Wife bustled into the Room — 
ostensibly to find Something but really to take 
an Affectionate Peek at the Pet Picture of her 
Darling Hubby that hung on the Wall of his Den. 
To say that Mrs. Toby was shocked to find her 
d. h. here in the Flesh is putting it mildly. But, 
she recovered quite quickly and quite becomingly 
and gurgled that this was some surprise! And that 
she was so glad he had come back because they 
didn't know what to do without him! And that 
the real Reason he had come back so soon was 
that he was lonesome for her — wasn't it, now? 
And what a dear, darling Boy he was! But, inci- 
dentally, the adroit Lady forgot to tell her dear, 
darling Toby that she had just wired him he could 
stay away two months as well as one. 

Moral: T)ont try to imwind all the yarn 
yourself— you II only get tangled in the end. 



H 70 86 












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BINDERY INC. 

j^ JAN 86 

^m^ N. MANCHESTER, 
^^#^ INDIANA 46962 




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